By Your Works Shall You Be Judged
by OldStoneface
Summary: SEQUEL to "From Dust to Flesh" - Lady Myria Lejean wishes nothing more than to be human. Unfortunately life cares not for our wishes. Between greedy peers, prickly wizards, suspicious watchmen, puzzled gods, and worse... a very interested Lord Vetinari, it's hard to see how she can navigate the minefield that is Ankh Morpork society and keep her sanity intact.
1. Reality Bites

**[A/N: If you have already read my other stories, welcome back! **

**If you haven't read my first story about Myria LeJean titled ****"From Dust to Flesh"** then please _STOP_ and give that one a look first. Otherwise, this story will **not make as much sense and will contain spoilers for that story. You can get to that story quickly by clicking on my profile link above.  
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**And of course, I do not own any of Pratchett's world or characters. Enjoy!]  
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* * *

**Reality Bites**

In the midst of the hustle and bustle of Ankh Morpork, there is a soft silence.

Small Gods cemetery has long been the final rest of those not wealthy enough to afford a more respectable repose, or of those unwilling to commit to one of the more prominent gods. It's no wonder that it also happens to be the final post for many members of the City Watch, so to speak; men and women who have seen far too much to have much faith in anything, and make far too little money to afford better.

Perhaps it isn't a coincidence that this quiet corner, most favored by the lowly watchmen, was also the recent scene of much excitement. The perpetrators of all this todo-ish-ness are now respectively in various states of pain, empathy and grudging sympathy.

The pain resides firmly in the ribcage of one Jonathon Knäcke, who until recently was possessed of a complete set of ribs and a sturdy, if somewhat commonplace, sternum. That is until he was struck by the noble and damn-fool idea of playing the hero by using his chest as a shield to save his lady-love. As a result, he discovered that while love may be stronger than oak, when struck by the heavy and unnaturally speeding weapon of crass destruction called The Poker, it is bound to come out second-best.

Having cracked several ribs, torn various cartilages, and bruised a few internal organs in the bargain, he can hopefully be forgiven if he is not his usual expressive self.

"Gnagghahg!" is the closest approximation to the sound he made as he writhed about on the lush grass, while one of the other two seemed intent on pressing and poking about his torso's most painful spots.

"I am sorry Jonathon! Truly! But I must understand what exactly is damaged if I am to help!"

This exclamation came from the second participant. Lady Myria LeJean had only recently become acquainted with the concept of empathy (and in fact had not had any emotions whatsoever only a few weeks prior), and was finding it distracting and difficult to deal with.

She was also wracked with other emotions. On the one hand, she knew that Jonathon's current condition was due to his saving her own life. Watching him suffer so, it was becoming more clear to her exactly what she had managed to avoid through his sacrifice. It was causing a troubling mix of emotions that included relief and gratitude that he had saved her, sadness and concern for him, and surprisingly what she was deciding was a strange sort of irritated guilt. _This_, she decided, _would bear further evaluation when she had a quiet moment to reflect. _

And so we come to the third of the trio. Lady Susan Sto Helit.

"This is ridiculous." Susan crossed her arms and frowned. "I've seen your Auditor 'cousins' create bodies from scratch, surely this should be child's play for you to mend? It's not as if he is seriously wounded."

Susan appeared to be successfully fighting off an acute attack of sympathy. She had seen far too much death (as well as Death) in her lifetime to be very good at bedside manner[1].

"Not seri- ahh!" Jonathon gasped as Myria's probing fingers found another way to show that love does, indeed, hurt like the dickens at times.

"Fine," Susan continued, her eyes rolling and mouth a hardened line, "I'm sure it _feels_ serious to Mr. Knäcke, but my question still stands."

In addition to not being the most sympathetic person in the world, Susan also had the complete inability to be distracted from a point of inquiry. This particular skill was honed by spending most of her time as a teacher of very young children.[2]

"I am sure that I can." Myria pulled her hands away and sat back on her heels. "That is, I feel that _should_ be able to do so." She shook her head slightly side to side. "I do not believe I am answering your question."

Susan raised her eyebrows. "No you aren't, and extra credit for admitting it."

"Perhaps…" Myria hesitated again, chewing her lower lip. "Perhaps I fear that I will make a mistake and do something to damage him further?"

Susan snorted. "You are asking my _opinion_? I'm sure you best know your own mind."

"No… I suppose it _would_ make no sense to ask your opinion. You are not as informed as I in this matter."

The last comment was slightly irritating, even if true. Susan had become used to knowing more than most people around her, and the alternative rankled a bit. "You don't have to put it _that_ way, but yes you're probably right." She paused as Jonathon moaned again. "Regardless, either you need to do something quickly, or we need to find a physicker for him. We can't move him like this; he'd be screaming the entire way."

"I believe it would be more dire than that. He has several fractured ribs that could break fully were we to attempt his transport, and I believe they could puncture something necessary for his vitality." Susan rolled her eyes, wondering how many years it would take before Myria learned to ease up a bit on the vocabulary. "I will try again," Myria took a deep breath, brought her hands back to Jonathon's ribcage, and closed her eyes.

She could _feel, _in a strange visceral way, the damaged tissue and cracked ribs beneath her fingers, and intuitively she _understood_ what it should feel like undamaged. She looked into the darkness behind the eyes and found she could build a picture, in her head, of what these things should look like. She could _see_ how the torn muscle and cartilage, the fractured bone should fit back together.

All that was required was for her to, as she had so many times before, _will_ reality to adjust slightly to her desire, and remake itself as she wished. The seductive ease of doing things like this was part of her being, and also had gotten her into trouble several times thus far.

Unfortunately, just when the need was greatest, reality seemed to be a bit fed up with her. Instead of behaving itself, it was acting like a four year old, hanging onto the hypothetical door-frame of the washroom of existence, and absolutely refusing to be dragged to the soapy bath of eternity.

In other words, reality was having none of her tinkering. Susan had said she should know her own mind best in this. But now it seemed perhaps not.

Frustrated, Myria drove herself more deeply into the darkness, pushed harder against that resistance with an effort that was almost painful…

The moment stretching out, time itself seemed to slow to a crawl and her thoughts felt like they were swimming through treacle…

Until suddenly the resistance broke, and she heard a corresponding gasp from Jonathon. In her mind's eye, she saw muscle fibers knit, tears in cartilage disappear, and cracks in bone seal. Not all the damage, but enough that she could hear his breathing ease. She had done enough.

Unfortunately the strain seemed to have left her with a slight feeling of discomfort behind her eyes that seemed to be slowly reaching towards the back of her skull. Regardless, she let her breath out with a gasp, and opened her eyes to see Susan glancing back and forth between her and Jonathon with some concern.

She turned her eyes to Jonathon's face. "Is that better?"

He took a tentative deep breath, grimaced, and let some of it out before answering. "Definitely. It still hurts, but I feel like I can breathe without screaming now. _Gods_ you are a wonder, Myria. Thank you."

Myria frowned "I…" She winced and frowned a bit deeper as the sound of her own voice triggered a twinge somewhere in the interior of her skull, and continued. "I am not sure thanks are necessary. You would not have been harmed had you not been attempting to save me."

Susan cleared her throat. "Myria, that seemed to take some effort on your part. Are you alright?"

Myria rubbed her hand across the back of her head, but could feel no outward sign of any damage. "My head hurts somewhat. It seems to keep time with my circulatory system's function." She dropped her hand. "It is not pleasant."

Susan seemed slightly relieved, perhaps even a little amused. "It's called a headache Myria, humans get them all the time. Usually it means you have exerted yourself or spent one too many minutes in the company of someone unpleasant." She lifted one corner of her mouth a bit more. "I'm not sure what it would mean for you, considering present company."

"Perhaps I am becoming more human than before. The process was… difficult. I have never had a head ache before."

"Well I suppose you have to take the bad with the good. We can get some willowbark tea for you once we have Mr. Knacke home. " She considered. "Or perhaps you could use the same trick to get rid of it now?"

Myria considered trying, but shook the thought away, which action seemed only to worsen the sensation. Trying to make reality jump to her own tune was what brought this head ache on in the first place. She suspected trying to make it go away using the same method that caused it would not have the desired result. "No. No I do not believe that would be advisable."

"Fine then. Let's get Mr. Knäcke to his bed so he can finish healing up. I suspect you both will have a lot to deal with in the next few days, if the manner of the City Watch was anything to go by."

Between the two of them, with only a little complaining and sobbing from Jonathon, a little grumbling from Susan, and a Myria preoccupied with her new human 'affliction', they managed to prop Jonathon up and assist him out of Small Gods Cemetery where they could flag down a coach to take them all to the Bakery on Body Street where, hopefully, a bed and some willowbark tea would follow in short order. Several days of bed rest for Jonathon would be a treat as well.

Unfortunately, it seemed that reality, or perhaps fate, had other ideas.

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[1] Much less graveside manner.

[2] For a teacher, the survival value of that kind of mental focus can't be overestimated. According to Bob's Theory of Devolution, the survival rate of a teacher of youngsters is inversely proportional to how easily distracted said teacher is. For example, one who misses the presence of a tack in ones chair has a career expectancy measured in weeks. Not noticing that one of the little scamps has put _Doctore Wholesome's Alle Naturale Purgative_ in one's coffee provides a more dramatic problem to deal with.

**[A/N: In case you weren't aware, authors just *LIVE* for feedback. Sure, we can see how many people view the stuff we write, but we have no idea whether they actually like it. So take pity on me and either send me a Private Message (PM) or write a public review and let me know what you thought, what you liked or didn't like. Thanks!]**


	2. The Fickle Finger

**The Fickle Finger**

In the midst of the hustle and bustle of the Disc, there is a tense silence.

In a white marble hall, a dozen or so persons are gathered around an equally white marble table. White marble benches are scattered here and there, though no one is using them. White marble plinths[1] hold white marble vases or white marble busts.

Had this been roundworld, there would be numerous documentaries about the eccentric trillionaire who had more money than wits and built an entire mansion out of butter, before he woke up one day convinced he was a giant ear of corn and tragically ate himself to death.

However this is the Discworld. Instead of money, it is Faith that is the coin these persons possess. And while they have sense enough not to build their domain out of a food substance, there is a similar tinge of insanity in building an entire realm out of a decorative rock that shows every little smudge. _What_, one wonders, _will happen if one day they wake up and decide they are a hammer and chisel?_

Regardless, our aforementioned persons are not sitting and enjoying the architecture, but instead standing crowded around the gametable. All are leaning in with various expressions of frustration, amusement, concern, disappointment, or affected boredom.

On the table stand various figures. Mere mortals, even the most astute and bloodthirsty politician, would have a difficult time understanding how the figures' placement represented their interactions in the world of men.[2] Some pieces, like the severe-looking young female figurine with a streak of black in her hair and holding a cast-iron bar, were not only unwilling participants, but actively resisted being someone else's pawn. Only the mightiest of the gods at the table dared try to bend The Governess to their will. Usually they just tried to play around her or, failing that, pretended she wasn't on the board and hoped their prize piece wouldn't get brained by The Poker at some point. That damn thing was potent enough to deserve capitalization. Anoia, Goddess of Things That Stick in Drawers, actually suggested at one point it be given its own piece on the board. It was not a popular suggestion. No one in the group liked the thought of The Poker running about on its own smiting things. It might end up being worshipped and hanging out in their favorite pub.

Other pieces, of varying power and usefulness, were unwitting but malleable tools in the Great Game. For example, the broad-shouldered watchman piece with a transparent crown on his head had figured into many a pleasant evening, but the Crowned Watchman was a piece that had to be used with care lest it upset the balance of The Game.

The Lady tended to favor the watchman, and often used him to devastating effectiveness.

As with many instances of The Game, many of the lesser gods found themselves outmaneuvered, neutralized, or worst case, their pieces eliminated or co-opted as The Game wore on. When your only piece on the board is a colony of educated rats, it's kind of tough to compete with the big boys controlling entire armies.

In the end, sessions of The Game often came down to a standoff between The Lady, Fate, and a handful of the other more powerful gods.

And there were the newer pieces on the board. The Baker, who started out a minor piece controlled by Levandus, the God of Yeast and Other Things That Swell When Heated, changed hands several times, passing through the hands of Errata the Goddess of Misunderstandings and a handful of other minor gods. In the end, it appeared that it played a key role in The Game.

And then there was the newest piece. The Grey Lady sat in the middle of the board, and Fate glared at it like a bit of dog mess left in the middle of the room. He had maneuvered it carefully through the early game, and all had gone according to plan, until it had come into contact with The Baker, and then everything had gone to the Dungeon Dimensions on him. Now he wasn't sure whether he even controlled the piece any more.

The Grey Lady shouldn't even exist at this point. Even worse, it was not only taking all the fun out of The Game, now he could see that it had distorted the entire board like a heavy weight placed on a rubber sheet.[3] Fiddling with reality was **_their_** gig. Twice now, he had felt himself cheated, and turned his displeasure on The Baker, and thence to Errata.

"You are taking liberties, Errata. I am surprised after that business with Tsort that you are so willing to extend your hand."

"I? There must be some misunderstanding." She smiled as he winced. "I lost control of that piece not long after The Governess re-entered The Game." She turned up the corner of her mouth and raised an eyebrow at The Lady.

She looked smug, but shook her head. "Do not look to me. I have been able to have some minor influence perhaps, but I lay no claim to ownership of that one." While she was always happy to see Fate get a bit of comeuppance, she had no interest in claiming credit for the work of others.

"Then who dares? _Twice_ now. _Twice_ the Baker has been used to delay the Grey Lady's removal from the board, and now that piece is distorting The Game itself."

"You know it, baby," came from the back of the group.

Fate's anger ratcheted up a few degrees and he directed it in the direction of the voice. "_What_?! Who was that?"

Several of the higher status gods moved aside, revealing the speaker to Fate's rage. The recipient of that glare turned on an oblivious 5000 watt smile and subtly shifted to show off his best side.

Fate sighed, his anger dissipating despite himself. "Seriously Rod, don't you have some teenagers to torment? Perhaps a Music-with-Rocks-In concert to hang out backstage at or some puppy eyes to practice?

The God of Infatuation's smile faltered for a moment, then came back with full force. "Come on man, lighten up. Just having a little harmless crush, right?"

"_A little harmless crush!_? Did you not sense the ripples? First these upstart Auditors attempt to stop time, halting all _worship_ in the process..." that caused the entire pantheon to wince, save perhaps for The Lady "… which threw us all into a sort of stasis for several hours, and now _this_." He swept the room with his right arm. "We _all_ felt the surge from the event in the cemetery. That piece is now a liability to The Game, thanks to your 'harmless crush'. Why don't you try using your head for once instead of your hormones?"

"Sorry man, gotta follow your feelings you know. My head said stay out of it, but my heart said go with what feels good right now." He brightened further. "Did you see how the Grey Lady reacted to the Crowned Watchman? That was a thing of beauty. She was almost following him around like a lovesick groupie!"

Fate regarded Rod soberly. Gods did not generally go for such gestures as 'facepalm' before, but he now understood the allure. The God of Infatuation loved to meddle in the Great Game, but could never stay focused on one goal or a given piece for more than a few hours at a time. So usually you could just ignore his pieces as they self destructed dramatically, except this time when it seemed he had gotten luc-. _Of course._

Fate sighed and turned to The Lady.

"So I assume that the Grey Lady belongs to you at the moment?" The Lady smiled enigmatically, and his mouth tightened. "It is to be that kind of game is it? Fine." _Perhaps, he mused, it is time to bring out a more reliable weapon. _Gesturing to the board, a new piece materialized near the center of the board. The Injured Lord was his most powerful piece that could always be relied upon to follow his will.

"Perhaps it is time the Grey Lady learns what happens with one tries to join noble society without true noble blood."

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[1] A plinth is like a small column, used for a display stand, but with more saliva (especially when Offler says it).

[2] We are using the word "men" very loosely here, and in fact it includes men, women, people of indeterminate gender, people who haven't figured out their gender, trolls, dwarves, werewolves, vampires, igors, pictsies, and a practically infinite number of various one-offs. (Including Mrs. Cake. Don't ask.)

[3] Why one would place a heavy weight on a rubber sheet, much less why one would have a rubber sheet, is not a matter we wish to dwell on.


	3. The Injured Lord

**[A/N: First off, an apology for those who were hoping for all new material for this chapter. I had intended to incorporate the 'foreshadowing' epilogue from "Dust to Flesh" into this story, and this was the spot. So no, you aren't losing your mind, you have read this before. I did a bit of tweaking here and there. Working on Chapter 4 as you read this!]  
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**The Injured Lord**

A large and elegant mansion rises from a well-manicured estate just off Scoone Avenue. Like its inhabitants, it embodies both former glory and a slight aura of wounded pride.

Attend, as we worm our way through a formal entrance designed to intimidate, past purpose-built and strangely uncomfortable seating in the formal sitting room, down private corridors to a spacious if somewhat decadent room smelling of tobacco smoke, dry paper, and old bookbinding glue.

Take a nice deep sniff, and you might find that lurking below these, and in some ways overpowering them, is the reek of old money and privilege. It is the kind of stench associated with the aggrieved and frustrated self-importance of a lion that has been too long held to second-place in a too-small fishbowl[1].

(Ahem, where were we? Ah yes…)

Sitting behind the ponderous and ornate desk, a self-defined gentleman adjusted his monocle and frowned at his servant.

"So you mean to tell me that this… _Lady_," his face pinched slightly in distaste at applying the title to her, "LeJean is responsible for extensive damage to my property, totaling… what was the number again?"

"Yes milord, it was over $10,000 AM. And it was only indirectly the lady's fault milord. It seems she stored a large amount of gold on the premises without paying her Thieves Guild dues, and miscreants attempted to steal it." He tensed, anticipating his master's displeasure.

"I see. Harumph," he harumphed." And you have notified this… person that she is responsible for returning my property to its original _pristine_ condition?"

Mr. Feddleman decided that correcting him on the prior condition of the residence would not be in his personal best interests at this point. "Of course milord. She indicated she had the ability to pay for the repairs in the time specified by the terms of her lease."

"Bah. Then why do you waste my time Feddleman? Have it taken care of!"

"Unfortunately milord, there has been... a complication. Lady LeJean has since been kidnapped."

Lord Rust's eyes ceased their aimless appraisal of dust motes and turned toward Feddleman. "Kidnapped eh? Not surprising. Bloody foreigners, wandering around the city with their foreign wealth, flaunting our established traditions[2]. They have no breeding you know, might as well give sausages to savages." Feddleman blinked at that one, but Rust kept going. "Fah, they are almost as bad as those damnable dwarves and trolls." He stood up and began pacing behind the desk. "The ruination of our way of life. That's what it is. Diluting our culture, supplanting the natural order of things. Getting above their station!" His monocle fell loose, hanging from its chain, and Feddleman suspected the topic of conversation had shifted slightly. "Allowing commoners… _commoners,_ to assume titles their family never earned!" He fixed him with a watery glare and paused. "Why are you still here Feddleman?"

Feddleman shuddered. "Er, there is one other thing milord." He took a step back. "It turns out the gold was somehow hidden in the flagstones of the floor milord, and after she was kidnapped the Watch declared the area a crime scene and-"

Rust reared up against the desk, leaving Feddleman grateful for its presence even though the massive bulk of it actually shifted beneath Rust's ire. "The _Watch_? The Watch?! The Watch has declared my property a crime scene! Is there no end to the insolence of that… that commoner?! That _pretender_! That… that _Vimes_!" Feddleman cowered before the sight of a nearly apoplectic Rust. Spittle and foam flew as his master jerked his head savagely. "Enough! Vetinari will bring that thief-taker to heel! This time he goes too far. They declare my property a crime scene because of… because of…" He quieted suddenly, and Feddleman thanked whatever Discworld gods might be listening. "Did you say, Feddleman, that the gold was hidden _inside_ the flagstones of the floor?" His eyes glinted suddenly. "How much gold is there?"

"It-!" Feddleman squeaked, then coughed and cleared his throat, "It would appear something in the seven figure range milord." Rust's face went suddenly unreadable, and he slowly straightened. He walked back to his overturned chair, straightening it and sitting calmly as he polished and replaced his monocle. "I see."

There was a long, pregnant silence as the two men silently counted up various things with lots of zeros after them.

"And you will attest that the flagstone in question was installed there _before_ the property was leased." It was not a question.

Feddleman sagged in relief. "Yes milord. Of course milord." And, he could hope, there would be a sizable commission involved. Well he could _hope_ couldn't he?

"It seems to me. " Lord Rust rubbed his chin. "It _seems to me_ that I do not need to trouble _Lady_ LeJean for the funds to repair my property. For one, it appears that _Lady_ LeJean may not be in any condition to return to the property. Not that a gentleman would wish any harm to a Lady of course." Feddleman nodded vigorously. "And secondly, it does not appear that _Lady_ LeJean has any funds with which to have such repairs made after all."

Rust's eyes gleamed. "Thus it appears that, sadly, we will be forced to make such repairs out of funds that, it seems, I already possessed. Is this not correct Feddleman?" He did not wait for a response. "Yes. Yes do go and call Mr. Slant. I believe I need to consult with him regarding certain... legal questions regarding my continued ownership of a large amount of precious metals that... certain others may seek to improperly claim as their own." Feddleman made to leave.

"Oh and Feddleman, should Lady LeJean prove to be at liberty after all, you will of course inform her that it will take many months to repair the damage. I'm afraid the Lady will have to seek other lodging." A slight smile creased his lips. "Yes, indeed."

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[1] Yes yes we are mixing our metaphors. _Fine_. It's a _LION_fish. Are you happy now?

[2] Traditions such as the venerable "My family has always had all the money and those other families have always been poor, how about we keep it that way?" and "Social mobility? What on earth sort of infernal idea is that?"


	4. Homecoming

**Homecoming**

The coach ride back to the Bakery was unpleasant. Ankh Morpork streets are not what one would call smooth under the most liberal definition, but generally people became used to the bumps and jounces of uneven cobbles and periodic holes. But in this situation, every jolt brought out a grunt or moan from Jonathon. More immediate and personal, Myria felt a shooting pain in her head with every jerking movement, and was beginning to tire of the sensation. It made her want to criticize Jonathon's complaints with short and biting words, and she did not understand why her own discomfort should make her want to say things that she knew would be unfair. The strain of holding her silence just made her feel more… bothered.

As a result, she was very relieved when they finally reached the Bakery. It was strange; it felt like a weight was removed from her body as she sighted the familiar building. It must have something to do with familiarity. Then she saw that there were two unfamiliar people standing outside the door, and some of the weight returned.

As they exited the coach, helping Jonathon down with some cursing on his part, she spared some attention for the man and dwarf, who were clearly wearing some type of uniform. She frowned. The uniform, I have seen this before. Where-

_The Captain._

A feeling of heat washed over her, especially in her face. _Embarrassment_, she labeled it. Followed by a strong feeling of guilt.

Unlike the Captain, these watchmen were heavily armed and not smiling. Instead of truncheons, they had swords sheathed at their sides and were watching the trio exit the coach with hard faces. Their entire demeanor broadcast 'authority' and 'serious'.

As she and Susan helped Jonathon toward the bakery, the stocky human watchman on the left moved forward to intercept them. Glancing between the three, he somehow settled on Susan as the one to address. Myria guessed that it had to do with her demeanor. While Myria had an ingrained need to defer to authority, Susan's body language seemed to express that she considered the Watch to be more of a distraction rather than something to seek out or fear. [1]

The watchman placed himself squarely in their path, muscled arms cocked elbows out and his right hand resting lightly near the hilt of his sword[2]. "Begging your pardon, milady, might I inquire as to your name and business?" His words were polite, but his stance apparently hadn't got the memo.

Myria felt Jonathon draw up as if to speak and then wince, and heard Susan whisper "Pray allow me." Without waiting for a response from Jonathon, she arched an eyebrow at the watchman. "What, no '_halt who goes there'_?"

The watchman's expression darkened and his hand tightened at his belt. "Would that work better, _milady_?"

Susan matched his expression. "Not likely." Myria watched with some concern as the dwarf watchman, seeming to sense things were not going well, began moving closer to the group from her right. _What was Susan doing?_

"There you go then, milady," was the first watchman's response.

Susan drew herself up, and Myria could feel her switching into what Susan would call her 'teacher mode.' "My good watchman, I have an injured man here, and would very much like to get him into his own home. As for my name, I would be more than happy to provide it, after you provide yours and explain why you here at all, and why you are preventing a man from reaching his own bed." The watchman's face reddened as she spoke, and Myria saw a _third_ watchman, this one a _troll_, come around the bakery from the left, and realized with a start that there were _two more_ watchmen on nearby rooftops. Those two held crossbows, not pointed in their direction. _I am becoming concerned. _She admitted to herself._ But I do not understand why. The situation should be resolving, not becoming more… tense._

By the time Susan had finished, the first watchman had reached maximum scowl. In the silence that followed he held it for a few seconds, realized it was not going to have any impact on her, and deflated slightly, clearing his throat. "I am Corporal Stroud, milady, and I have orders to let no one pass other than confirmed family members and those vouched for by them."

"Well that-" Jonathon began to answer, but Susan squeezed his arm. Myria could tell he was beginning to be frustrated with Susan's behavior as much as by the overall situation, and he was beginning to become heavy which told her he was tired as well.

"_Marvelous_," Susan smiled but there was nothing pleasant in it, "since this is Mr. Jonathon Knäcke, and we are his friends, there should be no issue then."

Constable Stroud relaxed slightly. "Thank you my lady. One moment please." He turned to the dwarf. "Constable Thundergust, let the sarge know that we have someone here claiming to be Jonathon Knacke with two friends," he turned back to Susan, "and if you please, milady?"

"I am Susan Sto-Helit," if he recognized the title, to his credit it did not cow him much. "And this is Lady Myria LeJean."

That revelation had an unexpected result. Both Corporal Stroud and Constable Thundergust stepped back as if struck, growing pale. Corporal Stroud actually placed his hand on his sword hilt as his eyes darted back and forth between the two ladies, finally halting on Myria. "You are Lady Myria LeJean, ma'am?"

Myria felt naked beneath the attention, but managed a small nod. "Yes, I am."

Without taking his eyes off Myria, Corporal Stroud made a small hand signal, and Myria noted with growing alarm that the crossbows on the adjoining rooftops were now pointing in their general direction, though still not at them. "Constable, belay that. Go to the Yard and tell the Commander that Lady Myria is here."

The dwarf hesitated. "But sir, shouldn't we tell the sergeant-"

The corporal's jaw worked, but he didn't take his eyes off of Myria. "That wasn't a request, constable." Shaking his head slightly, the dwarf turned and made surprising speed down Body Street toward Pseudopolis Yard.

Jonathon had had his fill. Working his arm out of Susan's grip with a grunt of pain, he stepped forward, swaying slightly. "See here corporal, this _is_ my home. And I don't appreciate being treated this way. I have had the worst month of my life, including nearly being impaled today." He coughed and grimaced, "And my chest feels like it's been tap-danced on by a hippo."

"I understand Mr. Knacke, but we still need to-"

"What is the meaning of this? _Marjoram_! Thank Levanus[3] you're alive!" This was from one of two people just exiting the bakery. Corporal Stroud stepped back, slightly confused and concerned.

"Mrs. Knacke, you really should not be outside." He turned back to Jonathon, who was turning bright red. "And I thought you said you were _Jonathon_ Knäcke sir."

"Oh _bother_," Jonathon's Aunt Rosemarie continued. "Constable Stroud, this _is_ my nephew Jonathon. He despises his given name." She made to reach Jonathon, and Stroud attempted to intercept her.

"Stand down Corporal. I'm sure it's fine." This came from the second person exiting the bakery, a dwarf.

"Yes sarge." Stroud stepped aside and Jonathon's aunt flung herself at him.

"Gahhh! Aunt Rose! My ribs!"

She extracted herself and saw how pale his face was. "Sorry dear. I'm just so glad to see you are alive. We were so sick with worry when we realized you had gone early this morning, we called the Watch." She cast a dark look at the corporal. "I didn't expect them to keep you waiting on your own doorstep."

"My apologies Mrs. Knacke. Corporal Stroud may have been overly cautious, but I'm sure he had good reason for concern."

"Sarge," Stroud almost hissed, "_that_ is Lady LeJean." Myria noted that the sergeant's reaction was not as dramatic as that of the first two, but the revelation still appeared to give him pause. The troll watchman on the other hand seemed barely aware of his surroundings and merely stared off into space.

"Ah." His brow furrowed for a moment. "Lady LeJean, I should inform you that the Commander of the Watch has a standing order that were you found, you were to be guarded at all times and he notified immediately."

"I…" Myria considered the fact that there are two reasons to guard an object or person. The first was to protect it from harm or loss. The second was to protect others from that thing. Considering the reactions of the watchmen, she reached the obvious conclusion. "I see. Yes. I believe that I do understand."

This seemed to remind Jonathon's Aunt Petunia of her presence. She turned to Myria, more subdued. "Myria, it's good to see that you are alright as well. Jessica was very worried about you."

Myria found this to be the greatest surprise thus far, and for a few moments her expression looked remarkably like a fish as her brain attempted to reconcile the suffering Jessica had experienced because of her with Aunt Rosemarie's statement. "Surely you must be mistaken, considering that her injuries were m-"

"Let's not get into that right now, shall we?" Susan interrupted yet again, pointing her chin at the watchmen before turning to face them fully. "Sergeant, may we take Jonathon inside?"

The sergeant seemed startled by this, then stepped aside and gestured toward the door. "Of course ma'am. We are only here for his protection." Myria filed this under additional confirmation of her prior suspicions regarding who was being guarded from whom.

"Good." Susan nodded to Myria and they got Jonathon, now closer to dead weight, moving again. Aunt Rosemarie was already hurrying to hold the door open for them and preparing for some serious fussing.

They were just past the sergeant when he cleared his throat."Er, one request ma'am."

Susan sighed and looked back over Jonathon's left shoulder. "And what is that?"

He at least had the decency to look slightly embarrassed. The corporal on the other hand just looked bloody suspicious. "The Commander will want to speak with Lady LeJean. Please ensure she does not leave the premises without notifying us."

Myria could literally feel the disapproval radiating off of Susan as she responded coldly, "I will bear that in mind." Which response, to Myria's mind, was not exactly an agreement.

The next few minutes were a flurry of activity. Uncle Pars met them at the door and took over getting Jonathon up the stairs and to his room. Jonathon did his part as well, stumbling and weaving and cursing under his breath with each step of the staircase until he collapsed into his bed.

As soon as they were both inside and out of earshot of the watch, Susan quickly rounded on Jonathon's aunt, taking her by the sleeve and having some sort of quiet conversation with her.

Which left Myria, for the first time that morning, alone with her own thoughts for a few seconds.

Which was the exact length of time she was afforded before she received her _third_ shock of the day in the form of being body-tackled by a young, thin, but happily animated teenage girl. Expressing, in no uncertain terms, that Jessica's Aunt Rosemarie had not been mistaken at all regarding her feelings about Myria.

For the second time in her very short life so far, Myria found herself weeping, and knowing exactly why she was doing so. She would not have imagined one could do so out of joy.

* * *

[1] The propensity of a Watchman to seek out the person in the group that will be least cooperative is similar to a well-known party phenomenon. As anyone who has ever seen an officer of the law show up at a party, it's practically a given that the most completely inebriated individual there, possibly wearing underwear on their head, will nominate themselves 'official spokesman' for the group. The result typically involves long hours in a small concrete room with excellent security.

[2] The Watch had not yet discovered the joys of mirrored eyewear. If they had, he would have been wearing that too and likely would have slipped it down his nose slightly to peer over it.

[3] The aforementioned God of Yeast and Other Things That Rise When Heated. Very popular among breadmakers, and also among newlyweds for some reason.


	5. What Me Worry?

**What Me Worry?**

Susan's conversation with Jonathon's aunt only lasted a few minutes, which time Myria and Jessica spent trying to one-up each other in soppiness. Myria did not understand why being happy should also make her cry. It seemed completely inappropriate, but she decided to go with it and try to puzzle that one out later. They were interrupted when Susan finally let Aunt Rosemarie go and fuss over Jonathon and rounded on them.

She smiled a tight smile. "If you two don't stop, you will have to mop up the puddle on the floor after." Her face softened. "Jessica, I am sorry to interrupt. May I speak with Myria privately for a moment? Thank you." She didn't wait for a response, though Jessica did get a nod in, as Susan took Myria by the arm and led her back downstairs.

Susan seemed very intent. Should she not be happy? The fact that she wasn't made Myria concerned. "Is something wrong?"

"Perhaps. I have some things to check into. I will try to stop by later tonight or tomorrow to see how everyone is getting on."

"Is it serious?"

Susan frowned. "I'm not sure…" She gestured out the window at the men still hovering outside. "The fact that they sent four Watchmen h-"

"Six."

Susan stopped and tilted her head at Myria. "Excuse me?"

"Six." Myria found she did not like correcting Susan, she could feel that it made her tense. But she couldn't stop herself. "There were two on the rooftops nearby with what appeared to be crossbows."

Susan was silent for a second, then took a slow breath. "As I was _saying_. The fact that they sent _six_ Watchmen tells us that something serious is afoot. And it involves you. Miss Rosemarie said they arrived as soon as the family reported Jonathon was missing, and they asked a lot of questions about you."

More of the joy at being back in the bakery fled. "Susan, am I endangering his family by being here?"

Susan sighed. "Oh do stop. What will you do if I say yes? Run away again so that poor fool has to hobble after you?" She shook her head. "You are not putting the Knäcke's in danger from the Watch. The Commander has a reputation for honesty and pig-headedness and his men follow his lead." She took a breath, let it out. "No, it is not Jonathon's family that is in danger."

Myria considered Susan's words as the two women looked at each other silently for a moment. "Yes. Yes I believe I understand. Thank you Susan, for all that you have done for me."

"Pray stop mentioning it. I could become weepy." Susan smiled grimly. "I will return tonight or tomorrow. Do not worry unnecessarily."

As Susan left the bakery, Myria considered. _Do not worry unnecessarily._ What an interesting turn of phrase. So she could worry, as long as it was necessary. That seemed prudent.

Now she just had to determine which things were necessary to worry about, and which were not. That… seemed much more complicated.

"I shall have to consider that carefully," she murmured to herself as she went back upstairs.

* * *

The Knäcke household spent the next hour or so fussing over Jonathon as a group. Myria noted with some concern, though she opted not to worry about it, that his uncle was avoiding looking at her. His aunt on the other hand seemed somewhat reserved, but polite. Jessica was clearly overjoyed to have her back. There was one thing that concerned her there as well, and she determined to worry about it aloud.

"Jessica, you appear to be unwell, and I can see that you are unsteady."

Jessica rolled her eyes. "Gods Myria, you are as bad as my mother."

"Well it's good to see Myria has some sense, if you don't." Rosemarie quipped. "Myria would you..." She shot a look at Pars, who seemed to tense but did not otherwise react. "Would you help Jessica to her room? Her legs are still unsteady, no matter what she says."

"Of course." Myria followed Jessica, who was still eye-rolling and snorting, out the door of Jonathon's room. As soon as they were out in the common area, Jessica leaned on her, and she could feel her trembling slightly. "Jessica, you are more unwell than you were showing."

"It's alright." She gave a wan smile. "I'm just tired now. I was so happy to see you, I may have overdone it some."

Myria for the second time today helped a Knäcke to their bed. It seemed to be becoming a habit, and both times were through her fault. She felt another wave of guilt. "Why did you not say something before?" She asked as she eased Jessica into her bed.

"I didn't want to steal Jonny's spotlight." She giggled, then sobered. "No seriously, my parents have enough to worry about, and I'm just tired now, not really sick."

"It is my fault, is it not. I am sorry."

"No! No this isn't really your fault. It was… something else."

"What do you mean?"

Jessica tensed, took a deep breath, and over the next few minutes told Myria about her exposure to the Auditors, and Susan's intervention.

As she spoke, Myria felt a new emotion. She had felt upset before. She knew that one. And she had felt fear. And anger. This felt somewhat like anger, but there was something else to it. She could taste something else flavoring it. There probably isn't a single word that sums up the emotion really. It's the complex blend that someone who escapes from a cult feels when they learn that the group has gone after someone they care about. Or that a person might feel when they rescue a sackful of puppies from the river Ankh[1].

Probably the closest descriptive would be "righteous wrath". It's what turns formerly quiet and mousy humans into Crusaders for Justice[2]. Her eyes practically burned with it. "They dared? How _dare_ they. I will… I will destroy them if they return. I will destroy them a-"

Jessica pale and grabbed Myria's clenched hands, prying the fingers open. "Please Myria. _Don't_!" She put her right hand on Myria's face to get her full attention. "I don't think I can handle thinking about… _that_… just now."

Myria felt the emotion drain away, replaced quickly by guilt again. _Of course, the thought of me seeking retribution…_ "I am sorry. I did not think now how reference to that would affect you. And I am sorry for what happened. I was not myself."

Jessica gritted her teeth. "You're still talking about it. _Stop_. Let's just move on."

"How?"

Jessica looked at her, confused. "How what?"

"How do you move on?"

Jessica shrugged, glad to see the topic shifting. "I don't know. You just try to forget, or gloss over, or think about other things. Maybe it's selective memory, the brain walls things off that are too painful."

"I am not sure my brain works that way. I can not keep from thinking about it."

Jessica frowned. "Well crap. _That_ could be a problem down the road. Won't that make you nuts?"

"If you mean mentally imbalanced, I am not sure. I would hope not."

Jessica laughed. "Myria, you are one odd bird. But I like you that way. Definitely not boring." She yawned. "Now go see to Jonathon, I'm going to take a nap."

* * *

Back in Jonathon's room, Myria was glad to see that he was sleeping, with his aunt sitting next to him. He looked very peaceful and she stood for a few moments, enjoying the sight before asking her next question.

"Where is Jonathon's uncle?"

"He went downstairs. We need to see if we can salvage the lunch hour." Rosemarie cast a dark look out the window. "That is, if those _men_ don't run off all the customers." She made as if to pat Jonathon's hand, and stopped herself. "I should go and help. I can't sit here watching Jonny the rest of the day, and we're shorthanded as it is." She stood up and stretched her back.

"Would I be allowed to assist?"

Rosemarie paused in mid-stretch, slowly lowering her arms. She looked toward the stairs for a moment and chewed her lip. "Well. Well." She seemed to reach a decision. "Yes. Yes you will, and I'll welcome the help."

Myria noted that she used the singular, and not the plural. Jonathon's uncle, it seemed, would not be so welcoming. It hurt.

Watching Uncle Pars spend the rest of the morning carefully avoiding her, while still somehow getting work done with her, also hurt. But it was tempered somewhat by what she rediscovered in the bakery, a sense of belonging, of having a role to play. As she helped with the sifting and mixing and kneading, she felt that _connection_ to humanity that she swore she would never give up again.

* * *

[1] Granted, no puppies ever drowned from being thrown into the river Ankh, usually they ended up banged up from hitting the surface. It would take quite a bit more weight to eventually sink into that mess. But it's the thought that counts. Also, being cooped up in a sack with a half dozen siblings is a crime in itself.

[2] Capital letters included. No extra charge.

* * *

**[A/N: I am struggling with the writing at the moment, some review feedback would be appreciated on what you like and anything that needs to be fixed. Thanks for your time!"**


	6. Sobriety is Overrated

**Sobriety is Overrated**

By the afternoon, things seemed to be settling nicely. The watchmen gradually filtered into the background. Whenever Myria took moment to look out the windows, she could spot one or two of them either on the rooftops or across the street, but they didn't seem to interfere with business. There was a steady flow of grateful regular customers, mostly servants buying for their employers, during the noon mealtime. Many asked after Jessica and Jonathon, and when told they were ill but recovering offered both their well wishes and relief that it wasn't something serious. Some seemed to have heard rumors having to do with gold, and made side-remarks about whether the Knäckes would continue to run the bakery or retire like lords to the countryside. That rumor they squashed quickly.

As business slowed into the afternoon, Jessica came downstairs looking much better, ate with the family, and then helped clean up a bit over her mother's objections. This time Myria did not back up Rosemarie, as she could see that it was not doing Jessica harm.

"Surely some physical activity would be beneficial," Myria remarked after one of Rosemarie's pointed comments.

Rosemarie just snorted at that. "I thought I had an ally in the house."

Myria paused, frowning. "I am sorry? I did not realize this was an actual conflict, requiring that I take sides."

Jessica's mother snorted again. "Oh don't be silly, Myria. That was a joke of course."

Myria's face cleared. "I see. Then I shall leave you to 'fight your war between the two of you'." She looked a question at Jessica, as if to say _was that correct?_ and got a nod of encouragement from the youth. Smiling slightly, she went to the back to wash up.

"_Mom_. You can't _say_ things like that." She rolled her eyes. "Myria doesn't get sarcasm very well."

Rosemarie busied herself for a moment clearing the table. "I noticed that. Though for a highborn lady, she doesn't balk at getting her hands dirty. " Gave Myria a shrewd look, then faced Jessica again. "I like that about her."

Jessica considered for a second. "Yeah. Me too." She stole at Myria's retreating back. "Though she's not exactly high-born, more like she… found her way into wealth."

* * *

Mere blocks away at Pseudopolis Yard, Commander Vimes of the City Watch was not having a good day. For one thing, Sergeant Fred Colon kept coming in and informing him of yet another group of people asking about the gold being held in the basement cells, until finally he told Fred not to bother him with it and just shoo them off.

So when he heard the tattletale floorboard just this side of the door squeaking repeatedly, he knew Colon had news that he needed to give, but didn't know how to do it without violating Vimes' previous order.

"Come in Sergeant."

Fred Colon came in, red-faced and slightly bewildered. "Don't know how you do that Mister Vimes."

"Yes yes. What's the story, Fred?"

Every pound of Fred's ample bulk shouted out _you really don't want to know_, but he coughed once, cleared his throat, and soldiered on. "I thought you should know, the cells are starting to fill up."

Vimes slumped in his chair a little and rubbed his face. That damned scar that Carcer gave him, not quite healed, still itched. "Do tell."

"Yessir." Both chins wobbled. "We've arrested three from the Thieves Guild trying to break _into_ the cells sir." He shook his head.

"Hah!" Vimes barked, "That's got to be a first." Then the implications sunk in. . "Wait a minute." Vimes got a dangerous glint in his eye as he carefully spoke the next sentence. "Are you telling me… that the Thieves Guild is violating their own rules?"

"Er... nossir. We, uh, that is the Watch never paid dues to the Thieves Guild, Mister Vimes. We, uh, never had anything worth stealing before. I mean, all the men are paid up, but 'parently that's not the same thing."

Vimes just stared at him for a minute, making Colon very uncomfortable until he realized he wasn't actually looking at him, but through him. "Damn. So since the gold doesn't belong to any one of us, doesn't count as breaking the rules, eh?" He grunted in the closest thing he'd ever come to a compliment to Lord Downey's crew. "Twisty logic, but can't exactly argue with it. Send Carrot around to find out how much the dues would be and get that taken care of."

Colon saluted, relieved. "Right away sir. Err…"

Oh gods. Vimes fought the urge to rub the scar. "What else is it, Fred."

"Yessir. Detritus had to knock out a couple of Chrysoprase's goons that tried to bully their way in."

Vimes was beginning to get a feel for this now. "And…"

Colon looked even more uncomfortable, which was quite an accomplishment. "And of course the dwarves have been trying. You know how they are about," He lowered his voice, "G-O-L-"

"Yes Fred," Vimes interrupted, "I'm well aware of how dwarves feel about that particular metal."

"Yessir. Several tried to tunnel their way in, Mister Vimes. Carrot caught them with pickaxes."

"And how many of _them_ so far?"

"Er... " Colon seemed to be trying to find a corner of the room to hide in.

"Gods, tell me it's not seven..."

"I'm afraid so sir."

Vimes shook his head. He could feel a headache coming on. "They weren't accompanied by a young girl, who was singing to the birdies were they?"

"No Commander, but if you want I could ask Cheery to lead them in a sing-along."

Vimes gripped the edge of the desk, giving Colon a long look.

"Right sir. Bad joke sir."

Sir Samuel Vimes, Commander of the City Watch, found his hand toying with his lower desk drawer. Once upon a time, that treacherous hand would have found a more or less full bottle of Bearhuggers Whiskey there. While the drawer had not had anything of that sort in it for countless months now, old habits sobered up reluctantly. He pulled his hand back and allowed it to rub his scar in consolation, before reaching for his cigar case.

"Fred," he said as he toyed with a cigar, "at this rate, the cells are going to fill up with people trying to break _into_ the cells."

"World's gone mad Mister Vimes. It's the gold. Err…"

Vimes sighed. "There's more?" He stared at the cigar very hard.

"Er, Mr. De Worde was by as well. He wanted to interview us about what he called "The LeJean Affair" I told him to be off."

Vimes carefully set down the cigar and put both hands over his eyes. "De Worde." His fingers dug into his temples. "I don't need this, Fred. Sybil's cranky with not enough sleep since young Sam was born, and I'm having to bunk out in my office to get some sleep myself. On top of that I have to deal with Rust demanding I return hisgold, Vetinari asking all sorts of pointed questions, and a woman who won't stay dead. Add to that people trying to break into my own damn cells and now De Worde's nosing around."

He stared at the wall for a moment. "We need to settle this. Send a runner over to the bakery to fetch LeJean, I want to talk to her about _her_ gold. _Before_ De Worde gets to the Knäcke's."

Fred's feet had him out of the office on autopilot before his head had even finished processing Vimes' commands. _Well at least he didn't yell this time._

* * *

The young watchman who knocked at the bakery door seemed familiar to Jessica when her mother opened it.

"Yes?" It wasn't exactly a polite greeting, but she was still angry about the confrontation that morning.

"Message for Ms. LeJean, ma'am." He had the decency to look uncomfortable.

Rosemarie looked him up and down. "She's upstairs checking on my nephew. I'll take that." She pulled the paper out of his hand and immediately began to open it.

He paled a bit. "Ma'am, are you supposed to-"

"You mind yourself young man."

His face tightened slightly. "Yes ma'am."

Rosemarie's eyes scanned the message as she pursed her lips. "Hmph. Can't say as we can spare her right now."

"Excuse me ma'am?"

She looked up at the constable. "I mean we are too busy, and we are short-handed as it is."

The constable looked around the empty bakery, then back at Rosemarie, and opened his mouth slightly with a look that just said _I am about to state the obvious._

"Mind yourself," she warned.

This time he was less intimidated, and held his ground. "Yes ma'am. But the Commander won't be happy."

Rosemarie snorted. "Not my affair. And I'm already unhappy so we'll all be unhappy together. How about that."

"Yes ma'am." He was finding his feet now, and finding that 'Yes ma'am' seemed to work well. It was a safe holdover from dealing with minor nobles in Uberwald.

Jessica was sure now that she recognized him, watching this exchange. She finally came around the counter and got his attention. "Scuse me officer, do I know you?"

His face softened a little as he realized who he was speaking to. "Constable Stepanoff, miss."

"Oh!" Jessica's eyes widened and she hugged herself.

He smiled slightly. "Yes miss, the same. I'm glad to see you well." He seemed to actually mean it, not just being polite.

She wasn't sure how to respond. "Yes. I… thank you constable. If it hadn't been for you…"

"Just doing my job miss." He interrupted. "And honestly, I think the dog had quite a bit to do with it."

Jessica's arms loosened and her face went quizzical. "Dog?"

The left side of his mouth drew up, and she decided he was rather cute, for a Sammy. "Well, I say dog, only because I'm pretty sure it wasn't a rat."

That struck a couple of memories, ones that had a vivid odor associated with them. "Oh. Was he sorta brownish? Smelled like a wet privy carpet?"

He laughed a little. "That's the one. I take you're acquainted?"

"You could say that. I appear to owe him some thanks as well. If you see him-" She had been about to say _tell him to stop by._ But that definitely wouldn't work. "Um, just let us know if you see him, ok?"

Stepanoff nodded. "Will do miss. I should get back to the Commander. " He paused and smiled. "It is good to see you well miss."

"Call me Jessica." She smiled.

He smiled a bit more broadly, and turned to leave. "Perhaps when I am off duty?" he threw out over his shoulder as he passed out the door, not waiting for a reply.

Jessica blushed slightly, and Rosemarie huffed a bit. "Well _that_ was subtle." Which caused Jessica to give her a glare.

"Mother!"

Rosemarie just chuckled at her. "Oh go tell Myria to expect more of these." She waved the message. If her guess was right, it definitely would not be the last, and things were about to get complicated again.


	7. Perchance to Dream

**7 Perchance to Dream**

Myria checked on Jonathon periodically throughout the day. If he was asleep, she merely stood in the doorway and watched him for a few moments before returning downstairs to help in the bakery. She found that seeing him there was calming, reassuring, even if she didn't speak with him or touch him.

Other times she would reach the upstairs and hear that he was awake, but he would be speaking with his uncle and she did not wish to intrude. There was an uncomfortable feeling in how Pars looked at her when she was around Jonathon, and so she began avoiding it.

Thus it was late afternoon when she managed to slip upstairs to find Jonathon both awake _and_ alone. He was lying quietly, propped up with pillows. He smiled slightly when she entered the room.

She felt her face smile in response. "You are awake."

"And feeling better," he answered quietly. "Sit with me for a minute? I've missed you."

"I have been 'keeping busy' as your aunt says. It appears to make time pass more quickly." Myria moved the wooden chair closer to the head of the bed, and eased into it as she looked Jonathon up and down, from chest wrapped with bandages to an impressive bruise on his cheek. "You seem to be recovering well."

"Definitely. It only hurts when I laugh." He smiled a bit broader, then looked pained. "And when I move my face too much, apparently."

Myria studied his face carefully. "Is that a way of saying something else, or do you actually mean that it hurts when you laugh?"

"I mean it really hurts when I laugh. Or cough. Or take very deep breaths. But other than that, as long as I don't try to get up I feel pretty good. The bandage helps, mostly because it keeps me from taking very deep breaths."

"Then you should stay in your bed, and continue to do none of those things."

Jonathon gave Myria a look. "Now you sound like my aunt."

"She is a wise woman."

"Great, another female in the house on Team Rosemarie. Can you hand me that glass of water? I'd rather not do the reach."

"Of course." Myria retrieved the half-full glass from the beside table and handed it to him. She thought for a moment, "Jonathon, that is the second time today someone has referred to it as a competition with sides. Your aunt accused me of betraying her side earlier when I suggested that Jessica was correct."

Jonathon shrugged with the glass in his hand, and winced. "That's just chatter, I guess." He took a couple of sips, and handed it back to Myria to replace on the table.

"I am less sure." She leaned back in the chair. "After consideration, I think that there are sides, and they change depending on the situation. I think…" she looked to Jonathon for affirmation, "that it is important not to be seen always agreeing with one person and disagreeing with another. But I am still evaluating that."

Jonathon tilted his head, eyes unfocused for several seconds. "Hmm. I think you've hit on something there." Another thoughtful stare. "You know Myria, it's strange. For someone who doesn't understand humans very well, you keep making these leaps that make _me_ have to think about what it means to be human."

Myria's mouth tightened, and she felt her eyes threaten to tear up. _Selfish body. It would not be fair_, she thought, _to cry now in front of Jonathon_. He was the one in physical pain; her emotions should not interfere. She turned her head slightly away, trying to hide it, without success.

"Oh, Myria I'm sorry. I didn't mean to say-"

She cleared her throat and shook her head. "Please Jonathon, do not apologize. We both know what I am, and what I am not. Wishing does not make it otherwise."

He reached out and rested his hand on her arm gently, which felt nice but in some ways made it worse. "I know, but I can tell it hurts you. It was thoughtless of me to just make an offhand remark like that."

"I have learned," she took a deep breath, "that sometimes the truth is painful." She ignored the tightness in her chest and forced her face to smile slightly, even though she was not actually happy. The result was not quite what she intended, falling somewhere between "I have just eaten a strange mushroom and now I can hear colors" and "My name is Norman, welcome to my inn. You remind me of my mother."

Jonathon looked confused for a moment and slightly concerned, then smiled in earnest. "That was a good attempt, but I'd practice in front of a mirror before you try that out in public. It definitely needs some work before anyone else will buy it."

For some reason, that eased the ache in her chest and the urge to become weepy retreated enough that she was able to give a small but genuine smile. "I am learning. Your family members are good teachers."

Jonathon was quiet again for a minute. She was beginning to recognize that particular tilt of head as meaning 'I am deep in thought. Please wait.'

Finally he continued, "You have changed, Myria."

Myria frowned and leaned forward. "What do you mean? In what ways have I changed? Should I change back?"

Jonathon laughed quietly, careful with his ribs. "Well, you seem more confident for one thing, at least until just then. And _no_ you should not change back… Could you? Change back I mean?"

"I do not know. I was not aware I was changing at all. But… " Myria pulled up a vision from memory, a picture in her head of clinging to him in the house on Kings Way, terrified he would leave her alone, and compared it to how she felt now. "I can see that I have changed. I feel less anxious about," she struggled to find the right word, "_living_. About being who I am."

Jonathon nodded in agreement and squeezed her arm in affirmation. "Yeah. I notice you haven't been waiting by my bedside every minute of the day. I half expected them to have to kick you out of the room."

"You have slept most of the day. I _have_ been upstairs to check on your health. But I determined it would not be reasonable to take up the limited space in this room while your family was tending to you. And I wanted to be of use. And yes, I feel less panicked by the idea of being away from you now." She covered his hand with hers, enjoying the quiet closeness.

There was a long quiet moment. It was one of those moments where two people gaze into each other's eyes and contemplate the depth of feeling they share, just before one of them is fated to say something stupid and completely screws up the moment.[1]

Jonathon decided fate could go screw itself.

"Kiss me."

"You wish me to kiss you?"

"Hah. That's what I said. I would kiss _you_, but I am not as mobile as I'd like. Now be quiet and kiss me." Myria felt suddenly hesitant, and didn't understand that at all. They had kissed before, and it was very enjoyable. She would, perhaps, ask Jessica about this later. Taking a deep breath, she leaned further forward in the chair, feeling her eyes begin to close of their own accord.

"Wait," Jonathon interrupted, and she froze and frowned slightly.

"Yes?"

"Make sure, if you decide to pass out again," he smirked a little, "that you don't fall on me. I don't want to end up with broken ribs again."

For some reason, that lightened the mood instead of upsetting her. Myria could tell that he was teasing her. "I will try to not be overcome. And I will be gentle." It was probably a chemical thing, but she felt like giggling, and gave in to the urge, and laughing leaned in and kissed him softly.

Immediately she found herself half enthralled by the impact of the kiss, and half trying to moderate the effect so she didn't lose herself completely in it. She was at least successful enough that she merely felt dizzy. Then again that may have been because she'd forgotten to keep breathing. She considered further that while light-headed, she also felt very much alive, as if the blood in her veins and arteries were spiced with…. with chocolate. Yes that was it.

It seemed an eternity later when she heard the sound of a cough, followed by a clearing of a throat, in the doorway behind her. For some reason, the sound automatically caused her to sit up, and she felt her face become warmer. _Embarrassment_? Jonathon's hand was still grasping hers; their fingers had intertwined, but he was looking past her with an expression that seemed a mix of amused and something else. "Uncle?"

Myria felt her body react, as if it were trying to compress itself into the chair and become smaller.

Pars continued, his voice neutral. "Jonathon needs to rest, and Rosemarie needs help downstairs."

Myria responded "Of course-" at the same time as Jonathon's "I'm fine Uncle-." They paused, realizing they had spoken over each other, and Myria jumped into the gap. "Jonathon, they need my assistance. I will return downstairs." She quickly got up and walked past Pars, neither looking at the other. The last she heard as she made her way down the stairs was Jonathon's voice, sounding troubled. "Uncle, what was…"

* * *

When evening mealtime arrived, Jonathon was asleep, and as a result Myria ended up sitting in his usual place at the table, her own 'special meal' in front of her. She had been proud of this batch of waferbread, as she had prepared it herself and could not wait to tell Jonathon about her success.

Unfortunately, that feeling was tempered quickly by a feeling of discomfort. The primary reason was that Jonathon's uncle seemed to be unwilling to speak to her or look at her. She was unsure of his aunt's feelings, but she was sure that his uncle was unhappy with her for any number of reasons, probably valid in her estimation.

Jessica on the other hand seemed oblivious at first, until she apparently realized that she was carrying three parts of a four-person conversation. Soon the only sounds were the clink of cutlery on plates and mouths working on processing food for digestion. Myria noted when Jessica began glancing from her aunt and uncle to Myria, a frown forming.

"Um, what's going on here?"

Pars frowned at his plate, and Rosemarie shot her a look and a quietly murmured "Later." Myria determined that she should not answer the question at that moment either.

But not answering seemed to make it worse. It felt, somehow, like the room was slowly becoming smaller and smaller, and Myria had the urge to flee. She found herself unable to finish her meal, meager though it was. Her stomach kept signaling that it was, well, _unhappy_ with her, though she did not know what he could have done to it.

Excusing herself quietly, she fled to the downstairs and discovered the joys of being sick in the utility sink.

The situation in the upstairs was little better. Jessica dropped her fork onto her plate with a clatter and crossed her arms. "Ok, what in dragonsfire is going on here, da?"

Pars frowned more deeply and gave her a careful look. "You mind your manners Safflower. I am your father, not one of your 'rocks' friends."

That response did not help matters. For one thing, Jessica hated being called Safflower, except in that loving, teasing way that fathers have with their children, and this certainly didn't fit the bill. For another, she was fifteen and 'practically grown up'. And for another, she had just been through a little personal hell.[2] She gritted her teeth.

_Okay, you want to play that card? Fine._ "Alright." She put on a neutral face. "Father, may I ask what is going on here?" Her mother widened her eyes at that.

Pars looked at her carefully. "Nothing that's your concern."

Jessica felt like her head was going to actually explode, and threw her hands up instead. "Seriously? This whole meal, everyone has been staring at the table and trying not to look at each other. A blind troll could tell you are mad about _something_, and no one is talking about it. And you say it's not my concern?"

"This is between adults, Saf-"

"Don't you _dare_ Safflower me and tell me it's none of my business. I am _fifteen_, not some runny nosed- Ow!" That last because her mother had just poked her in the leg with her fork.

"That is enough, both of you!" Rosemarie stood up. "Jessica, I need to speak to your father. I suspect that Myria could use some company."

"You're just trying to get rid of me."

"Yes I am. But it's still true."

Jessica looked at her mother suspiciously. Being told the truth threw her off a bit. "Well. Fine then. But I'm still not a kid any more. You can't just pretend there's no problems around me."

"I know that, maybe better than some do," she threw a glare over her shoulder at the only male in the room. "Now shoo and let me talk to your father."

Jessica put in the obligatory huff, the required 'shoving of the chair' and the mandatory stomping off, and found Myria downstairs sitting at the counter looking miserable and slightly green, having just finished rinsing out the sink and her mouth out with clean water.

"Wow, you look terrible? What happened?"

"I am not sure. It is possible that I did not prepare the waferbread properly. My digestive system malfunctioned."

Jessica put an arm around her in sympathy. "Ah. Threw up did you?"

"I believe that may be the term, though it is not exactly accurate. It was more out than up."

"Ick. Still no fun either way. Probably wasn't the food though. Probably it was the situation."

"What do you mean?" Myria turned to peer at Jessica.

"Well being nervous or upset can make you throw up. Not sure why." She shrugged with one shoulder.

"I see. Yes then that is a more likely explanation. I was very upset."

"Yeah. What gives?"

"I am sorry?"

She shook her slightly. "What's _wrong_, Myria?"

"They are angry with me. I think it is because I am here, and it is my fault."

"What the heck are you talking about?" Jessica's tone took on some of the edge it had gotten upstairs.

"I _believe_ that your father blames me for the condition of you and your cousin. It upsets him. And it is my faul-"

"Oh will you stop?" Jessica gripped both of Myria's shoulders and gave her a good shake at each syllable, which shocked her enough that all she could do was stare wide-eyed at the young girl. "Look Myria, yeah none of this would have happened if you hadn't stumbled into Jonny. But that's the _point_. _None_ of this would have happened." Myria tried to look away, but Jessica moved her hands up to either side of Myria's face, holding it in place. "Myria, I've never _seen_ him as happy as he was, before everything went wahoonie shaped. And you are responsible for that too. Get it?"

Jessica dropped one hand, leaning back. "So enough of the blaming thing. We're fine." Myria started to speak and Jessica covered her mouth. "Ok not fine. But we're alive and we're _going_ to be fine. Better than fine. I like you. You're like the kid sister I never had. Yeah I know you're like older than me, but you're so clueless most of the time it's like having a kid sister." She smiled and moved her hand away. "You can talk now."

"Well, actually you are correct. In experience I am only a few months old."

"See. And you're gaining a sense of humor too." She noted the look of confusion on Myria's face. "Ok maybe not. But that's not the point. Jonny is all gallant knight over you. I mean throwing yourself in front of a _spear_ for a lady? That's like so romantic it's stupid, and kinda sickening, but I could sell _books_ about that and make thousands."

Myria struggled, as usual with Jessica, to determine which statements to address. Several of them seemed to have factual errors. She opted for what seemed the most important. "Jonathon may not feel the same way now."

Jessica snorted. "Riggghhhttt. And the King will come back to Ankh Morpork and appoint him the next Patrician. Look Jonny's crazy about you, and mom and dad will just have to deal with it."

Myra wanted to believe her, but upstairs she suspected things were much more complex than Jessica would admit. Suddenly she felt very, very tired. Too tired to really absorb all of this. She felt her mouth gape open and her body reflexively inhaled deeply.

That seemed to snap Jessica out of her rant. "I'm sorry Myria, you're exhausted aren't you? How many hours did you work today?"

Another yawn. "I am unsure."

"Well how many hours were you downstairs in the bakery."

"Not counting time when I was taking food upstairs or attending to personal needs, 8 hours and 23 minutes."

"Geez Myria, no you don't subtract off those. And all that after being awake since before dawn? No wonder you are exhausted."

"I am not sure I was-"

"Whatever. We need to get you to… hey wait a minute. Where are you staying now?"

Myria realized that she had not even considered this. She must be more tired than she had realized. "I do not know. I had not considered it." Her face betrayed her concern. "My previous dwelling is not suitable for habitation due to extensive damage. And I do not have access to any funds to obtain alternate lodging."

"Well then you have to stay here tonight, at least."

"I do not believe that your father will approve."

"Right now, I don't care if they have a rat's ass[3]."

Myria blinked at her. "I suspect that-

"Oh forge-" Jessica sighed. _No, telling Myria to forget it won't work either._ "That was another saying. It means I don't care at all. The point is, you have nowhere else to stay, so you are staying here. End of discussion."

Myria sat, swaying slightly and just looked at Jessica.

"Well, don't you have anything to say?"

"But, you said it was the end of the dis-"

Jessica grabbed her own hair and tugged. "Gods Myria, sometimes you are impossible. No, don't ask. I'm too exasperated and angry at my parents right now to explain _anything_ without making it more confusing. Come with me." Not waiting for an answer, she took Myria by the arm and walked her up the stairs. They could hear Pars and Rosemarie having an intense and moderately loud discussion from their bedroom as Jessica led Myria into Jessica's room before plopping her on the bed. She pointed at Myria. "_You_. Lay down here. Go to sleep. Do not go anywhere else. That's an order." She pointed a thumb back at herself. "_I'm_ going to go have a the mother of all teen rebellion moments with my parents, and it's gonna be ugly. Like Music With Rocks In ugly." She looked almost giddy with the prospect as she closed the door behind her.

Alone and on an actual bed for the first time since before Jessica had been kidnapped, Myria surprised herself by quickly falling asleep despite the familial storm she knew must be brewing nearby. Her last thought was to wonder what the world would look like tomorrow.

* * *

[1] Usually resulting in the next 1 hour and 45 minute of the movie being spent trying to repair the damage in either a humorous or heartbreaking manner.

[2] For those unaware of the term "Fire Triangle" this is a pretty similar mixture.

[3] Rat's Ass [n] MWRI slang for a really bad scene.


	8. Small Miracles

**8 Small Miracles**

Myria awoke feeling... well. Well and rested. And warm. And slightly constrained. She discovered upon becoming fully awake that the feelings of warmth and being constrained were directly related. They were due to the fact she was stuffed between the wall and Jessica, and at some point Jessica had decided she would serve as a giant cuddly blanky, had snuggled up as close as possible, and then sprawled half of her limbs on top of Myria.

The feeling was not wholly unpleasant, and very comforting in a way that was quite different from how she had felt when she and Jonathon had been in close physical contact. But she quickly became aware of one pressing problem with the situation.

Myria grimaced. "Jessica?"

"Mrmf," was the less than expressive reply. It appeared that Jessica was partially consuming a portion of her pillow, which begged the question of how she was obtaining sufficient oxygen.[1]

"Jessica?" _What is protocol in this situation?_ _Should I actively attempt to awaken Jessica? Or wait and hope that she will awaken or shifted over on her own? Would it be improper to physically remove her without waking her?_

After some consideration of her predicament versus the potential for offense, Myria settled for extracting one arm and gently poking Jessica in the side. "Jessica. Please move to the side. I must get up."

"Mrmfrm?"

That at least was recognizable as a question from the tone. "I must get _up_ Jessica. _Please_. It is becoming urgent."

"Mrm?" Jessica slowly extracted her face from the pillow and turned it toward Myria. Opening one lid and fixing a bleary eye in Myria's general direction, she managed a "Whazzit?" Myria watched as the eye finally focused and appeared to sync up with Jessica's brain, at least partially. "Mrng Mrya. Zup?"

Myria waved an arm, attempting to express urgency. "I must attend to body functions. Without delay."

That clicked, and the rest of the brain seemed to engage. "Oh!" Jessica rolled aside with a slight laugh, and Myria staggered out of the bed and promptly ended up on the floor.

"I am impaired." This was disturbing. One of her legs refused to hold her weight, and was disobeying direct commands.

Jessica laughed again. "Yeah I think your leg's asleep."

"What do you mean? How can only part of me sleep? That is a brain function."

Jessica sighed and plopped back face-first onto her pillow, mumbling "too early for this" before extracting it long enough to explain that it was a circulation thing. "Give it a second, try moving it around. Wiggle your toes or something," she managed before again seeking the solitude of a face full of featherdown.

Myria found that the remedy worked, though the nerves in her leg were having some sort of minor malfunction, telling her that there were small things crawling on her skin, which was clearly not true. After managing to get it working somewhat, she managed to stagger downstairs and out to the privy without falling again.

Required business[2] attended to, she noted the sounds of Jessica's parents at work in the bakery. It was surprising and troubling that neither had sought the assistance of either her or Jessica, and she resolve to ask Jessica about it. She also paid Jonathon's room a brief visit, but finding him sleeping still she opted not to wake him but instead returned to Jessica's room.

There she found Jessica more awake, sitting on the edge of her bed and attempting to rub the sleep from her eyes. "Oh, hey again. Sorry about the whole personal space thing."

"What do you mean?"

"I kinda had you crowded in there. Ma says that I'm like smoke in a room when I sleep. I kinda expand to fill the whole space."

"I see. I did not mind, other than the 'sleeping leg'. I noted, however that it is later than usual, and your parents are working. Why did they not awaken us to help in the bakery?"

"Oh _that_." Jessica snorted. "I'm guessing it's because my parents are either still thinking I'm all fragile and need the rest, or da is still so miffed he didn't want to see my smug face around." She illustrated the point through an expression that seemed to combine humor with a strange appearance of fierce satisfaction. Myria guessed that was what 'smug' meant. "You missed _all_ the fun last night I think. I bet you were out like a light as soon as I left the room."

"I believe so. But I can not imagine how the conversation with your parents could have been enjoyable."

"It definitely wasn't at first." Jessica sobered a little. "You were right about at least part of it. Da was all 'It is too dangerous to have Myria around.' and 'It's not good for Jonathon to be so attached to her.' and 'She should be with her own kind.' Now that was a laugh."

Myria tensed. "My own kind? Do they know?"

Jessica smirked. "Are you kidding me? No way! I mean, they know you're a bit… uncanny. But they don't know about the whole 'don't mess with Myria unless you want to see what you're made of' thing." The smirk wavered for a second. That wasn't all that funny when she thought about it.

"Then what did your father intend by 'my kind'?

"Oh he means your social class thing. Remember what we talked about?"

"Ah. Yes. But I have no money, and I find I did not particularly enjoy the company of those women we met, who are supposed to be of my social class."

"And that's exactly what I told Da, and he got all huffy so Ma had to calm him down again. And _then_ I said that since you had no money right now, and you were like a guest and all, it would be a mortal crime to just turn you out." Jessica grinned broadly and she narrowed her eyes. "Now _that_ got Da's trousers in a twist and he got all red and gave me what for."

"What for?"

"What for. He went off on this tirade about me not showing proper respect and blah blah blah. I'm surprised it didn't wake you or Jonny. Ma was giving me hand signals behind his back." She illustrated waving a hand in a small circle "So I just let him get it out of his system. Then Ma took my side and he knew he was beaten." She rubbed her face again. "But it took a while. No wonder I'm tired."

Myria shook her head. "That all sounds unpleasant and not satisfactory at all."

"Don't worry about it, it all worked out." She paused. "Well, he did score a few points. Like you can't stay in Jonathon's room cause suddenly it's not proper." She shrugged. "It's not like you could do anything anyway with him all banged up and bandaged up like that," she added, peering at Myria from the corner of one eye.

Myria felt her face warm. "_Jessica_. I do not believe you should be discussing such topics with me?"

Jessica giggled. "Oh don't worry about it. I mean it's a _little_ oogy thinking about my cousin snogging, but I don't get totally creeped out by the idea. But the _point_ is, you can stay here in my room until you can get your own place again. How cool is that?"

Myria thought for a moment. "Actually it was quite warm."

Jessica looked exasperated again, "Myria, I meant-" and was interrupted by Myria raising her hand.

"Wait one moment." Myria smiled hesitantly. "I was attempting to make a joke. Did I succeed?"

Jessica's jaw dropped, then morphed into an honest smile. "You crafty thing you. Yep. Aced it in one!" Standing, she gave Myria a hug, and they went about their business getting ready for the day.

* * *

After tending to their remaining morning ablutions, they made their way downstairs to find Rosemarie and Pars both looking a little tired, but working steadily. It had apparently been a long night for them as well. Rosemarie greeted them warmly, while Pars was at best polite to Myria and carefully eyed Jessica.

At least it was an improvement over the prior evening. While he was still very unhappy with the current arrangements, he had to admit that having Myria around seemed to have sped up Jessica's recovery. Of course there was a downside, that this meant her normal teenage prickliness was also resurfacing, as he learned last night. "Outnumbered and out femaled," he muttered, and turned back to his work.

* * *

A few hours later, Myria and Jessica were in full swing, and the bakery was beginning to actually feel like a fully functioning business again. Jessica was kneading dough for the mid-day baking and Myria was handling the previously baked goods. She was trying to determine whether it was coincidence or not that Pars had assigned her to take care of 'that Genuan bread' visitors from there couldn't live without. Pars meanwhile was tending the ovens while Rosemarie handled customers.

Most of the customers fell into two categories. The servants of the wealthier ones were there buying baked goods, bread and pies mostly with a few cakes by special arrangement, on behalf of their employers. Then there were the working-class customers, who could not regularly afford such treats. Instead, they would file in with already-prepared food and for a small fee, Pars would pop it into the oven for them.[3] Mostly these took the form of meat or fruit pies with a smattering of specialty breads or other dishes that they would serve for the afternoon meal.

Thus Myria was happily slicing the crusty Genuan Bread into thick slabs. She was enjoying not only the effort but also the alluring but slightly terrifying smell it gave off, when she discovered something new and quite interesting.

Her body, she discovered, was amazingly adept at many things. But it could not be counted on to avoid sharp edges.

At first, there was no pain. Then an intense itching/burning sensation emanated from the cut as her body told her brain of its extreme displeasure at what had just happened to her forefinger. Myria stared at the cleanly sliced flesh, fascinated as the initial wave of pain receded.

"I have cut myself," she murmured, and her eyes widened as rich, dark liquid began to ooze, slowly at first and then with greater speed, from the separated tissue of her finger.

Jessica turned from her own work, and cringed in sympathy. "Ouch! Yeah, you have." She grabbed a nearby towel. "Here, wrap this around it and hold it above your head."

Instead of doing as she suggested, Myria lifted her hand up to eye-level, marveling at the way the blood swelled and pooled at the site of the wound, and then trickled down her hand to drip onto the floor. "I am _bleeding_!"

Jessica's eyes flicked from her hand to Myria's odd expression. _Is she in shock? No…_ "Um. No kidding. Now take the towel?"

Myria seemed unable to tear her attention away, and shook her head slowly, "You do not understand. _I am bleeding_!"

Jessica lowered the proffered towel and eyed Myria carefully. "Ok Myria. You are _seriously_ creeping me out, and you're getting blood everywhere. What is the big deal? Yes you're _bleeding_. All. Over. The. Floor."

That added information seemed to finally snap Myria out of it. "Oh! Yes. Yes I see. I am sorry." She reluctantly took the towel from Jessica and wrapped it around her finger somewhat mournfully, and elevated her hand as Jessica suggested. "It is just that, I have never bled before."

"You've never been cut before?"

"No I did not say that. I have been injured before." She lowered her voice. "But I was not like _this_ then. I did not _bleed_. Now I am more like _you_." She smiled, her eyes shining.

_Ohhhh…_."Right. Got it." She gave Myria a sympathetic but slightly wary look. "Well that's great, I guess, but try not to do it too much. Blood is supposed to stay _inside_. And nobody likes scars."

"Yes. Yes of course. I will have to be more careful now."

"You do that. I don't want you cutting yourself on stuff. That will freak people out. And then there's germs and stuff." She looked at the towel. "I guess I should get a real bandage, and something to clean out the cut. It didn't look deep, but we don't want it getting infected."

Myria frowned slightly. "Infected?"

"Yeah. Dr. Lawn told me about it. There are like these little bugs that get into cuts, and they can make you sick."

Myria's eyes narrowed. "I am not sure I would allow that."

"Not allow… wow. Now that's not something I ever heard someone say. But still better safe than sorry, right?"

"Yes I suppose you are correct." Myria looked at her finger carefully, wrapped in the towel, and her brows knit in concentration. "There, that should be sufficient."

"You didn't."

"Why not?"

"Let me see that!"

"Did I do wrong?" Myria was looking left and right, suddenly realizing that she had again done something _uncanny_.

"I said," Jessica continued carefully, "let me see it."

With growing unease, Myria unwrapped the bloody towel and let Jessica inspect the finger.

Shaking her head, Jessica murmured. "Not even a scar."

"You said that-"

"I know what I said." She stepped back and tapped a tooth thoughtfully. "You, my friend, are full of surprises today. No don't get upset, but don't go letting people know you can do that either, _ok_? You'll have a line out the door of people wanting you to lay hands on them." She considered a moment. "Hey waitaminute. How come you didn't heal up Jonny that way?"

Myria looked embarrassed. "I tried. But for some reason it was difficult and gave me an ache in my head. I was only able to do some repairs. Susan said it was interesting." Myria had not found it interesting at all.

"That's probably just as well. Here, let me get rid of the towel, and you clean up the blood before my parents start asking questions."

"Yes. I suppose you are right."

* * *

[1] The ability of teenagers to sleep in contorted positions with their faces crammed into a pillow or forearm without self-asphyxiating or, like some warped topiary, permanently taking the shape of a pretzel, is a mystery to parents and Auditors the universe over.

[2] Visits to the privy were still definitely at the very bottom of on her list of "things I particularly enjoy about being human." She had tried, several times, to determine if there was some way to avoid it. None of them ended well.

[3] This was actually common practice in roundworld cities, before ovens were common fixtures in every home. Locals would prepare their own dishes and pay the baker to supply that portion of the preparation.

**A/N: *cough cough* there's like... a button down there, just below this text. Has the word "review on it". Wonder what it does? *cough cough* ;-)**


	9. A Little Bit of Rope

**9 A Little Bit of Rope**

The rest of the morning passed uneventfully. There was some discussion regarding who would be saddled with dealing with Jonathon's bedpan. Jessica absolutely refused, threatening to show everyone her last meal in all of its splendor if forced to do so. Pars claimed it was 'not his place,' which caused some raised eyebrows from his wife. Myria expressed that she was willing to do so, but Rosemarie simply patted her shoulder and said don't worry about it, she'd been dealing with such things since her daughter and nephew were babes. Age really made little difference.

Jonathon continued to improve gradually, sitting up for longer periods but still suffering when he had to change bedclothes or do anything else requiring much movement of his chest or arms.

Early afternoon brought a visitor, who was greeted by Rosemarie at the front of the bakery.

"Doctor Lawn! What a pleasure. May I offer you something? We have some meat pie left from the lunch hour, still warm next to the oven."

The man in question smiled in return and tilted his head before setting his ever-present bag on a chair. "Mrs. Knäcke. Thank you, but I'm really not hungry." His smile faded a little. "I thought I'd stop by and see how your daughter was doing. I haven't heard any updates in a couple of days."

"Hey Doc! How's things?" came the answer to his question, followed by Jessica coming into sight from the back of the bakery. The doctor's face lightened at that, and his smile returned as he gave her a professional appraisal.

"Well I guess that answers that question. You look in much better health, Jessica."

"Yeah. I feel a lot better too."

"I can tell. I'm relieved." It had been difficult for him, attempting to treat what he was sure was not a physical ailment but manifested itself like a wasting sickness. This would be a significant load off of his mind. He turned to Rosemarie and asked more quietly, "What happened? She's done a complete turnaround."

"I... can't say for sure, but I think it had to do with Lady Myria returning."

"Oh? That's interesting, but stranger things have happened." He continued more loudly. "Well, it appears that thankfully you don't need my services after all." He straightened and reached for his bag.

Rosemarie and Jessica looked at each other for a moment, reaching silent agreement. "Actually Doc, there _is_ something I'd like you to check, if you don't mind?"

"Oh?"

"Yeah… um. My cousin had a little accident and bruised his ribs. Think you could have a look?"

Lawn was no fool. He could tell from how the two ladies were acting that there was more to this than an 'accident.' But true to his field, he didn't push the matter. "Well, since I'm already here, let's have a look." Shouldering his bag again, he let them lead him upstairs to Jonathon's room, where he insisted on examining Jonathon "without everyone hovering over." Giving him a thorough once-over, which resulted in more than a little grumbling, muttering, and whining from Jonathon about being poked and prodded and forced to move in ways that hurt, he pronounced him in no danger of getting worse, and apparently well on his way to recovery.

"It's odd though. The way these injuries look, I'd say you had been hurt a lot worse than you are now. And they look at least a week old." He looked carefully at Jonathon, who did his best to appear clueless and innocent and opted for a painful shrug. "I see. And the fact that I was here only four days ago, and you were fine?" He sighed. Well, it looks like your family has fixed you up well. Stay in bed and don't exert yourself for a few more days, then you can gradually start moving around again. Take some willowbark tea if you have pain or swelling."

"Thanks Doctor Lawn."

Giving Jonathon another openly curiously look, he left the room to inform the rest of the family. As Rosemarie walked him to the door, he paused again. "Jonathon's injuries wouldn't have anything to do with those watchmen loitering around outside the bakery, would they Mrs. Knäcke? Not that it's my business."

Rosemarie considered for a moment. He had been very helpful and attentive to Jessica. She opted to be polite. "Somewhat, Doctor Lawn. Yes."

"Hmmm. Well, as much as I have enjoyed your company, I hope I won't have any more professional interest anytime soon?"

"We'll try. I promise."

* * *

The day proved to be a busy one, when a second visitor arrived in the late afternoon.

It was another watchman, one they had not seen before. Just entering the bakery, he somehow seemed to draw attention to himself. Not especially tall, nor dressed especially richly, his primary distinguishing feature was a still-pink scar above and below one eye.

"May I help you, officer?" she asked with as much politeness as she could, which wasn't much.

He looked at her and smiled slightly, but she wasn't sure what was so funny. "Yes I believe you can. I have a message for Lady LeJean."

She drew herself up. "As I told the _other_ man yesterday, we are very busy and she is helping us here in the bakery. You may leave any message with me, and tell your Commander she will not be able to answer any summons at this time."

Commander Vimes smile broadened further. It wasn't often in this day and age that he was thwarted by someone who was not either his wife, or the Patrician . He found Mrs. Knäcke's attempt at intimidation actually refreshing. Had she been an aristocrat basing it off of her 'pedigree' that would have been another matter, but he always appreciated someone willing to stand up to capricious authority for family.

Not that he considered himself capricious.

Well, not most of the time.

Still, this was going to be interesting. "Well then, Mrs. Knäcke, it's fortunate that I'm here to speak with her, and not to summon her anywhere. And I don't have anything written to hand over either." He crossed his arms and tilted his head to the side slightly.

Rosemarie was temporarily at a loss, but recovered quickly. "Well. We are still very busy. Perhaps you could return some other day."

Vimes stared at her without his expression changing one bit for a few seconds, then slowly scanned the practically empty bakery. "I see. In that case-"

He was interrupted by the bakery door opening behind him. "_Commander_! They didn't tell me you would be inspecting the men today!" Stroud seemed very agitated, and Vimes' look of disappointment made it worse.

Rosemarie, on the other hand, became pale and felt slightly ill as she put two and two together and got a very _large_ number four. "Your Grace?" she managed in a small voice.

_Blast and damnation._ "Madam, you were doing so well before. Can we pretend Corporal Stroud did _not_ just blurt out the first thing that came into his head?" He gave Stroud another irritated look.

"Sorry Com-." Another look, and Corporal Stroud sagged. "Sorry sir. I'll be outside if you need anything, sir," and he literally scuttled out.

Vimes sighed. Corporal Stroud was zealous about making sure his men kept up appearances and regulations. He'd have to have a talk with his Sergeant about how Stroud handled more nuanced situations. Or have Carrot do it, he supposed. He sighed again, and turned back to Rosemarie, who was no longer sure of her footing. "Now, where were we? Ah yes. Lady LeJean. I need to speak with her. Privately if you don't mind."

"Yes Your Gr-"

"And please, don't call me '_Your Grace'_." He made a sour face. "As long as we're being so nice to each other, in private you can call me Mister Vimes. How about that?"

This seemed to make it worse. Calling Lady LeJean _Myria_ was one thing. But the Commander was a _Duke_ and had the ear of the Patrician. She shuddered and tried to recover some of her composure. "Yes. I… of course. One moment." Forgetting herself to the point where she didn't even offer him a chair or something to eat, she fled to the rear of the bakery.

"The Commander of the Watch is here!" She hissed to Pars, who became pale himself.

"The _Duke_ is here? In _our_ bakery? What does he-" he turned red. "Myria. It's always Myria," he muttered. "What were we thinking, Rose?"

She recovered a little more. "Don't start that again, it won't help anything now. We're arms-deep in dough. Complaining that it's stuck to our fingers _now_ won't do any good." She took another deep breath. "What do we do?"

Pars shook his head. "Only thing we can. Go upstairs and get Myria."

"What if he's here to arrest her?"

"All the better for us then."

"Parsley Knäcke! You take that back!"

Pars cringed, "Fine, I take it back. Rose, you know I shouldn't wish ill on any. But it's been hard. All this has caused our family so much hurt."

For the first time since Myria returned, Rosemarie felt she could see through her husband's anger to the hurt beneath. _This_ was the man she married; dedicated to family and kind-hearted. It was those strengths that had been working against him with respect to Myria. "I understand." She put gave him a brief hug and felt him untense slightly. "But I need you to stop focusing on what has happened and help me. Can we stall him? Pretend she's not here?"

Pars shook himself slightly, and focused on the problem at hand. "No. Rose, he's had men around the bakery for days now. He _knows_ she's here. Trying to delay or make excuses is just going to make things worse."

He took a deep breath. "Bring her down."

* * *

Myria sat in a corner of the bakery. She could _feel_ fear eating at the corners of her composure as she faced the man who, in Ankh Morpork, was probably as close to an Auditor as one could get among humans. The Commander of the City Watch, humans said, was all about the law. And the law was the _rules_.

Vimes, for his part, found his first impression of Lady Myria LeJean to be a very mixed bag. For one thing, she expressed absolutely zero of the arrogance and sense of entitlement he had come to expect from most peers. Nor did she exhibit the injured pride and bloody stupidity he'd grown to know and hate from Rust and his ilk. His only other exposure had been those like his darling wife, whose family had been so wealthy for so many generations that pride had given way to a sort of absent-minded assurance that 'everything just works out'. Lady Myria, on the other hand, seemed excessively polite and slightly brittle.

And then there was the matter of some of the things she was supposed to have done.

_Lady Myria LeJean, just what, exactly, are you? And what are you doing to my City?_

He had hoped to speak to her completely privately, both because based on first impressions he had high hopes for how much information he'd get out of it, and because he felt some of the matters might be best kept to as few ears as possible. The husband and wife had accepted immediately, probably hoping to stay as far away from him as possible. The nephew, who he had met previously, was apparently still recovering from his injuries, which was another matter he intended to pry into at some point.

Unfortunately, he'd been unable to make any headway at all against the teenage daughter.

"Absolutely not."

"Jessica, I am sure that-"

"Hells no." She looked at Vimes. "Is Myria under arrest? Cause if she is, she's not talking until she gets one of those advocate things."

That seemed to startle him. Good gods, is this what young Sam is going to turn into? The thought made him shudder. "No." he groused. "Lady Myria is _not_ under arrest." Myria and Jessica both relaxed slightly at this. "Though I considered taking you," he nodded at Myria, "into custody for your own protection." He held up a hand to forestall the teen's verbal assault of protest. "But Captain Carrot pointed out, rightly so, that were I to make a habit of locking people up for their own protection, I'd have to put up half the population of The Shades for the night, to protect them from the other half." He seemed to find this rather amusing. More amusing that either of the girls found the situation.

"Very well, Sir Samuel." Vimes noted that in that at least, Lady Myria was true to form for nobility. She had steadfastly refused to call him 'Mister Vimes' and had finally settled on 'Sir Samuel' to be as far down from 'Your Grace' as she was willing to go. "Would you then communicate to us the purpose of this visit? It is clearly important, or you would not have done so."

_Good Lord, it's like listening to a polite and very simple version of Vetinari. _ The Patrician was the only other person he knew who appeared to choose words so carefully. Vimes pointedly looked at Jessica Knäcke for a second. "Some of this discussion may be of a sensitive nature. Are you sure young Ms. Knäcke should be here?"

Jessica started to huff up again, but Myria forestalled it with a light touch on her shoulder. "Sir Samuel, I assure you Jessica is completely trustworthy in my affairs. We can speak of anything in her presence."

Vimes considered. Lady Myria had apparently rescued the girl, who had been kidnapped because of Myria in the first place. The fact that here they were on actual speaking terms should count for something.

"Fine." He addressed them both. "You understand that this situation is bigger than any of us?" He gave that a moment to sink in. "That" he lowered his voice "_gold_ is not going away. At this moment, I've got more of that metal than anyone living in this city has ever seen, sitting in the cells at Pseudopolis Yard." Myria looked uncomfortable, and Jessica's eyes widened a little. _Maybe that'll take some of the teenage attitude down a notch._ He shook his head. "To make matters worse, I've got Vetinari," Jessica winced at that name, "sending me messages _daily_ asking what the hell, pardon my language, I'm going to do with it."

"I see. Yes that does sound compl-"

"I'm not done. It was bad enough before _you_," he pointed a calloused finger at Myria, "popped back up in the land of the living. Before that point, there was some suggestion it might be," Vimes coughed, "_adopted_ by the city treasury, poor orphan shiny metal, just looking for someplace to call home." He chuckled without much humor. "Now that you are alive and well, frankly I don't know."

Jessica decided now was the moment to jump in. "But that's silly. It's Myria's isn't it? Can't she just get it back?"

Vimes gave a short, barking laugh. "Really? And just how will you get it out of the cells? And where will you put it? And can you prove it was hers?" He held up a hand as Jessica opened her mouth to protest again. "And on top of that, it's evidence of a crime." Vimes noted the different reactions, and felt a twinge of guilt. Jessica froze at the mention of the kidnapping, while Myria simply looked guilty and disturbed. This was for their own good though, and might get through how serious it was.

"But what crime? Myria and I were the victims!"

"That's definitely what it looks like, and if it were that simple, we'd have had to return it immediately. But _you_ know," he jabbed the air in front of her, "and _I_ know that there's more to it than that." Vimes folded his hands on the table in front of him. "I don't suppose you would be interested in explaining how a king's," he shuddered inside, "ransom of it got in the floor of a house you were leasing from Rust? Help the watch with our inquiries?"

It's amazing how slow time can pass when you know the answer to a question, and you also know that giving that answer would be a Very Bad Idea but don't have anything remotely reasonable to offer instead.

"That's what I thought." Vimes leaned back and rubbed his face tiredly. "Don't suppose you'd consider donating it to the city?" The idea wasn't his, and he personally didn't like it, but it might simplify things.

Had it been Myria alone, she would have said yes. _Surely, they would not insist I donate _all_ of the gold?_ And perhaps if needed she could produce more? The idea of doing so gave her a slightly tight feeling at her temples.

Jessica, on the other hand, just snorted. "Seriously? You want her to just give away most of her money. How is that not just a payoff?"

That hit a nerve with Vimes, and he struggled not to get angry. This young lady was going to be trouble, he could tell. He counted to ten before answering, "It's only _bribery_ if you are getting something in return. In this case, I am _told_ it is more like voluntary tax. And I'm no happier about this than you are. The real problem here is Rust, who claims it is his property and-"

The reaction from both females was immediate: "That is an absolute falsehood," from Myria and "Why that slimy little weasel! I don't care if he is a Lord, that's a big fat lie!" from Jessica. Myria had remained composed, only her face reddening in indignation. The young girl, on the other hand, he thought for a moment she was going to come at him from across the table.

Vimes decided that he liked Jessica, regardless of what it boded for his own future parenting experience, and Myria no matter what she might or might not be capable of. He let them both wind down. Rust was already, in Vimes opinion, the biggest tit on the face of the Disc. Making him the wealthiest one on top of that would be just too much.

"I understand your depth of feeling. But what that means, is you can't expect too much privacy for a while. Too many people know about this, and unless you hire some serious private security this is going to be nothing but trouble for you." Vimes didn't like the idea of private guards at all, though from time to time Willikins had served that purpose for his own family. But he also knew the Watch could not be expected to guard one family for days on end.

Myria frowned, "But the other nobility have money, and no one thinks to kidnap or harm them to obtain it. Why is this different?"

_Is she really that innocent?_ "Lady LeJean, those families are paid up with the Thieves Guild and have been for years, and you are not. And no one would dream of kidnapping a Venturi or a Rust because the wrath of the entire gentry would fall on them." _And if they kidnapped a Ramkin, there wouldn't be enough of the kidnappers left to bury_. Vimes realized that was something he and LeJean had in common, and was quiet for a few seconds.

"Sir Samuel?"

"Sorry." Vimes considered another lesson he had learned firsthand when he married Sybil Ramkin. "On top of that most of their wealth is tied up in land, estates, big bloody houses, and so on. I doubt they have much actual," he lowered his voice again, "_gold_ at any given time." He stared off into empty space as he mused. "Seems to me, they don't really spend, they just _have_." He locked eyes with Myria again, making her uncomfortable. "_You_ on the other hand, have more money than the Temple of Blind Io, sitting all in one place, crying out to be taken home and loved by half the city."

Jessica was beginning to actually understand the magnitude of the matter, and feeling very overwhelmed. For the first time in this conversation she was at a loss for what to say. So it was Myria that approached it more logically. "But I cannot pay the Thieves Guild dues because I do not have the gold now. And I cannot spend it here so as to become like them. So see, I am in an untenable position."

Vimes rubbed his scar, a new habit he was trying to break himself of. "Yes. Yes that's a real quandary now isn't it? And I can't give it to you because I am not sure it's legally yours." That brought another outburst from Jessica, "Calm down, calm down. My _personal_ opinion is one thing, but I have to follow the rules. That brought vigorous affirmation from Myria and silent stewing from Jessica. _The real reason, _he thought to himself, _is you wouldn't make it 15 feet from the Yard if we tried._

He rubbed his scar again, and stopped himself with an effort. Sighing, he placed both hand on the table and gripped the edge. "I tell you, I don't need this." He felt at his pocket and began to pull out a silver cigar case.

Jessica narrowed her eyes at him. "There's no smoking in the bakery. The smell gets into the bread."

Vimes looked put out. _And I was just starting to like her too_. He put it away. "Fine. Well all that's left for now is this, then." He pulled out a slip of paper and handed it to Myria.

"What is it?" Jessica asked as Myria read through it.

"It is a receipt, for the gold they are holding in custody, potentially on my behalf."

"Hmph. Fat lot of good that is."

"Its proof that we have something that we acknowledge is probably yours. That's better than a poke in the eye with a sharp stick." Vimes stood and the two followed suit. "Let me think about this. No promises. And for now, the guards stay. _For your protection_." He looked pointedly at Myria. "Just… _try_ not to do anything strange."

_Does he know?_ Myria thought with horror.

"Yes, I am aware of what happened at the kidnapping crime scene." He took them both in with a sweeping look.

Myria gasped and Jessica felt slightly nauseous. _Can he read my thoughts?_ was all Myria could think.

"And _no_, I'm not a mind reader." He pointed at their expressions. "That's enough both of you. I'm a _copper_, no matter what all those other titles say. I read _faces_ not _brains_. And no I don't know how you did it, but I want nothing like that happening again. You understand me? Are we clear?"

Both of them nodded vigorously.

"Nothing left but dust." He shook his head in disturbed awe. "Three men and their weapons, and one door, turned to dust piled on the floor."

"And one gold bar of course."

Vimes and Jessica both froze at that.

"What did you-" Vimes stopped and rubbed his stubbled chin. "I see. The ransom. You actually had it with you at the scene?"

Jessica was frantically trying to make hand signals at Myria that Vimes couldn't see, but that was practically a useless attempt[1].

Myria nodded quietly, hoping she was not making a mistake.

"Well, well. Seems you and I are not done for the day after all." Vimes had an eager look on his face, and Jessica hoped they hadn't just made things worse instead of better. It was impressive the way he got the Corporal back and soon had him splitting the watchmen into two groups, one to continue guarding the bakery and the second...

The second to accompany him and the two girls to a certain crime scene near The Shades.

* * *

[1] Anything subtle enough to get past Vimes would be so far over Myria's head it would practically be a new satellite.


	10. Like Stars in the Heavens

**10 Like Stars in the Heavens**

The Commander was clearly used to being obeyed. Pars and Rosemarie found themselves unable to mount an effective defense, and in Pars' case he was not all that motivated to do so. Not having Myria's presence as a constant reminder for a few hours would ease his mind.

They did argue that Jessica should remain behind, and Vimes agreed.

Jessica argued halfheartedly that she should be able to go, and loathed herself the entire time. She knew if she really fought for it, she could have gotten in on the trip.

The fact was, Jessica was terrified of that building. The mere thought of stepping within a hundred feet of it made her go cold inside. She was afraid. Afraid that if she went there she would look at Myria and see that coldness in Myria's eyes, that emotionless face again.

"I'm sorry, Myria." She hugged her tightly.

"There is nothing you need apologize for, Jessica. I believe everything will be fine. And if I am incorrect, you would be unable to help."

Jessica pulled back and gave Myria a long look. "Well thanks for that."

"I am sorry?"

Jessica sighed[1]. "Sometimes the truth is not what you want when you're upset and feeling guilty." She gave Myria a friendly push. "Now go ahead. But be safe and come back soon. Okay?"

Had it been just Vimes and his men, they would ordinarily have walked, but due to a sense of urgency and a need for more privacy he felt a coach was the better option. One of the constables flagged one down and Jessica watched them climb aboard with a sick feeling in her stomach.

* * *

It took less than a half hour to make their way to the abandoned cafe just off Attic Bee. Myria had to continuously fight the feeling that she had done this before, and the creeping, gnawing fear and dread that accompanied it. The Commander for his part did not make things easier. He was generally not good at small talk for one thing, and for another he was still not sure where Myria fit in to his city.

_You, Myria LeJean, are an oddity. An interesting puzzle._ Vimes like puzzles, as long as they could be solved. _Little bit of an outsider, it seems. I bet Rust would hate you. Well, he already does, but even without that complication he'd hate you._

Vimes' shameless appraising of her did little to help her comfort levels.

It was a long ride.

When they arrived at the building, Myria saw that boards had been nailed across the opening and someone had painted in bright yellow letters: "Cryme Seen". Below that "No Admi[squiggle]" had been painted and crossed out with "Stay Out" painted below it.

Vimes looked slightly embarrassed and mumbled something about "Colon," before turning to one of the men who had accompanied him and gesturing at the door. "Tear that down."

"Yessir."

As the watchmen removed the boards, Myria's feeling of dread ramped up with each one removed. Finally they stepped back from the opening.

The dark opening.

In her mind's eye, she began to see images from before, to again feel the coldness that had washed over her. I cannot do this. Why can I not do this. She imagined she could hear the slight whimpering sounds that Jessica had made as she knelt in that place. All the terrors of her first nights in the body were embodied in that opening. It was a yawning pit beneath her feet, trying to draw her in and swallow her up.

She felt a hand on her shoulder, and flinched. Turning to the Commander, she realized that she was not _remembering_ sounds Jessica had made, it was her throat making those sounds of fear and distress.

Vimes' face showed sympathy. "Lady LeJean, there is nothing left in there that can hurt you. Nothing in there that I will _let_ hurt you."

Myria swallowed. "I cannot… I cannot enter that place alone."

"Wasn't expecting you to." He appraised the three other men with him. "Anyone comes near this building, give a yell. No one else comes near this doorway. Understood?"

"Yessir." Two immediately flanked the door and the third walked across the street to stand in a doorway.

Vimes nodded in satisfaction, before turning back to Myria and offering his arm. "Shall we?"

Protocol. The contrast here helped. They were entering a place of fear, but his manner and form was that of a gentleman escorting a lady into a ballroom or dinner party. Falling on protocol made the fear manageable. Taking a deep breath, she looped her hand around his steady arm, and they walked up the steps and into the gloom.

Just inside the doorway, Vimes paused and let his eyes adjust to the reduced light. It wasn't dusk yet, and there was enough sunlight filtering in through windows and the open doorway that given a minute you could see fairly well. Provided you were not dumb enough to look directly at a window or the doorway.

Myria found herself trembling slightly, and willed her body, unsuccessfully, to stop it. Vimes placed his hand over the one she gripped him with, and gave a gentle, reassuring squeeze. "I should have realized how hard this was going to be for you.

They stood there for a minute longer, Vimes waiting patiently for Myria to come to terms with being in that room again. She understood now, better than she could have before, why Jessica should not, could not have come with them. If she was affected this strongly, how would Jessica, who had truly suffered, be impacted?

Focusing on someone else's worries and cares seemed to help drag her outside her own. "I believe I can move forward now." She took a step forward, removing her hand from Vimes arm.

His keen eyes took in details. The inches of gray dust still present throughout the room, with clear footprints leading too and from the back of the room near another open doorway. There, Jessica had been bound and that constable on loan from Bonk… Step-something, had found her. He paused, his copper instincts telling him that disturbing the dust further would not help matters.

Myria continued forward a few more steps, finally halting and pointing at a spot just in front of her. "Here," her voice was barely above a whisper. "I stood here, and I negotiated with the one." Her voice shook. "But he was not to be trusted."

"No. Snakes was a really piece of work."

"He did not tell me his name."

"We found out from Jessica afterward." Vimes gave her a look. "You saved her life, you know. They let her hear their names; both of you see their faces. There was no way they were going to let you leave that building still breathing."

"I did not."

_What the hells was that supposed to mean? And why was the room suddenly slightly chill._ He shivered. "Lady LeJean?"

She hugged herself and shook her head slightly. "I am sorry. The memories are not pleasant." She surveyed the room again, trying to look at it analytically. "The one you call Snakes stood there," she pointed to a slightly mounded are of dust. "So the gold would have the highest concentration there as well."

Vimes noted that the spot where Snakes had… well _died_ for lack of a better term, was almost four feet in front of where Myria had indicated she had stood. He also realized the watchman in his head was jumping up and down, ringing an alarm bell. _Look at what you don't see_! It kept yelling at him.

There was where Snakes had stood. Myria had stood there. Jessica in the back. Tracks leading to and from Jessica…

No tracks leading from where Myria had stood to the door, yet he could clearly see she was leaving footprints now.

_What exactly are you, Lady Myria LeJean?_ He mused yet again.

"Yes. This is where it should be." startled him out of his thoughts. He looked at where Myria pointed.

"I don't see anything there."

"It was significantly heavier than the other elements, Sir Samuel. It would have settled more quickly, and likely spread across a wide area as well."

"Still, shouldn't I see something? Flecks of yellow?"

Myria spoke without thinking. "No. It would be individual atoms, Sir Samuel. No single particle would be large enough to see." She saw the surprise on his face. Vimes, for his part, watched her face slide from casual response, to realization of what she had just said, through horror, and then resignation. "I am afraid I have provided you information I should not have."

Vimes grunted. "Bit late for that, isn't it?"

"Yes. I believe that to be a correct statement." She turned back to assessing the floor, and spoke quietly without looking at him. "Sir Samuel, would you be terribly insulted if I requested to be alone?"

"Insulted? No. But I'm not sure I want to miss this."

"Surely you have already ascertained what is to occur?"

"I have a rough idea. But that's not the same as seeing it with my own eyes." Vimes saw Myria's shoulders sag slightly.

It was one thing for him to suspect, or even know. It was another for a human to see her perform the task at hand. To see what she was _not_. _So be it._ "Very well. If I had the right, I would ask you to withhold judgment on me. To have… _mercy_ is perhaps not the right word. But I do not believe I have any justification for asking you to do so."

Vimes frowned. "That remains to be seen, LeJean."

_Was it no longer 'Lady' LeJean? How soon before it was not even that?_ Stifling the ache in her chest, Myria closed her eyes, stretched out her hands, and withdrew into the darkness. There, she pictured the room as it was, and then, with glacial slowness, what she _desired_ to it to be.

For several seconds, Vimes' eyes flicked from Myria, to the floor, and back repeatedly, wondering what the first noticeable change would be. At first nothing, then he thought he saw...

The dust… began to move. Imperceptibly at first, then swirling as if stirred by gentle breeze that left it rolling a few inches off the floor like a fog. A light gray mist, insubstantial as fog[2], boiled and bubbled gently against the floor. It erased the previous footsteps that were the aftermath of the kidnapping, and also their own more freshly made ones. Vimes suppressed the urge to step backward. Not that he was squeamish about the remains of several dead men deposited on his shoes; it was just the unreality of the whole thing that did something unpleasant to his nerves.

Then he realized something else. The dust was beginning to… layer, somehow. He could see differences in color, what seemed to be the fine-ness of it, separating out. He held still, afraid even the act of stepping forward or back would stir it back up and foul whatever LeJean was doing.

Myria saw none of this, but she began to feel the first inkling of pressure inside her head. At first it was a resistance in her thoughts, but as she pushed against it, striving to enforce her will, she felt it change to a true physical pressure. First the back of her skull experienced the sensation, then as she pressed on, it began to migrate around to meet in her forehead and settle behind her eyes.

"You're separating it out. How the hells are you doing that?"

Her response was strained, "With much suffering," she let out a small gasp before continuing, "Sir Samuel."

Gradually Vimes realized that he could see hints of gold in the nebulous clouds of layered dust. As he stood dumbfounded, it coalesced into tenuous streams, the suggestion of gold turning into its clear evidence. The streams began, in a spiral pattern, merging into tiny rivers.

It was like watching a tiny, golden galaxy being born before his eyes. Agataean astronomers would have watched in rapt fascination, waiting for a globe of tiny golden suns to blaze into existence at its center.

With a cry, Myria pitched forward and fell to her knees, her hands pressed against her temples as if trying to hold her head together. She tried opening her eyes, to see if she had succeeded, but the attempt brought a red-hot shaft of pain.

Vimes managed to tear himself away from the sight of a small, disk of gold with a slight bulge at the center, setting in a small clear spot on the floor. He stirred the recently layered dust into whorls and funnels as he went to her and bent down in concern.

"Do you need a physicker?"

"No." She gasped again, and felt suddenly nauseous. It was like when she had 'thrown up' the previous day. She gulped air, and tried again. "I… it hurts but I do not believe I am physically injured."

Vimes brow furrowed. "Are you sure? I could call Doctor Lawn and-"

She tried to shake her head, and stopped before making that mistake. "Sir Samuel," she whispered so that he had to lean closer to hear her, "how would I explain this to a physicker?"

Vimes had to admit, she had a point. "Not the first clue."

She stayed kneeling, gradually feeling the throbbing decrease and her stomach settle. "The pain is becoming less. I believe I may be able to stand, with some assistance."

Vimes helped her to her feet, where she swayed slightly, eyes slightly unfocused.

Still holding her by one arm to help steady her, Vimes asked quietly, "What _are_ you, Lady LeJean?"

He felt Myria flinch. "I am… unique Sir Samuel," she murmured. "Is that sufficient answer?"

Vimes pursed his lips. _That was no explanation. Do I want to press for more now? _ The gold again caught his eye. _First things first._ Vimes leaned down, and hesitating as if it would bite him, picked up the gold.

Myria watched at him uncertainly. _What will he do? Will he arrest me? Keep the gold?_

_What are_ you_, Sir Samuel?_

Keeping his eyes focused on Myria, Vimes deliberately slipped the disc of gold into an inside pocket, and she sagged against the wall.

_So. It was all for nothing._

She could have wept in frustration, if her head didn't hurt so much.

* * *

[1] Being around Myria, she was learning to perfect that sigh. It would be very useful when she had kids.

[2] This is a bit of artistic license. Anyone who has been through a serious Ankh-Morpork fog will tell you it is anything but insubstantial. When it got really thick, they tended to use Detritus as a fog-plow to ease the way.


	11. Fools Gold

**11 Fools Gold**

Between the lingering head ache and her despair, Myria had little interest in conversation as Vimes escorted her out of the building and back to the waiting coach. Leaving one watchman to board the café back up, he ordered the rest back onto the coach, one with the driver and one on the sideboard, and entered with Myria.

He was solicitous regarding her well-being, but that was of little consolation. Instead she withdrew into her own thoughts, barely hearing him.

_Which will it be? Will he take me to the bakery, keeping the gold? Or will he detain me in the cells, now that he knows what I am capable of? Either way, I am in no better condition than before, and perhaps worse._

_Have I made an error, in not remaining in the cemetery as I was? Was living simply a foolish desire, one that for my sins I cannot be allowed?_

Round and round her thoughts went in this vein, her mood becoming bleaker as the coach rumbled through the streets of Ankh Morpork and Vimes, realizing she was not listening, also lapsed into silence.

It was only the sudden cessation of movement and a "We're here, LeJean," that startled her out of her private suffering.

Composing herself as best she could, she allowed Vimes to assist her from the coach with what dignity she could muster, and took in her surroundings.

It was the Watch House. Pseudopolis Yard, if her memory was not faulty. Her heart sank even further. _So it is to be this, then._

Fighting against a wave of nausea, she found herself unable to move for a few moments, until Vimes gently took her arm. "This way," was all he said, and she blindly followed him into the building.

Inside, she felt exposed and vulnerable. The large common area, scattered with desks, was practically full of watchmen. The presence of so many officers, with she in their midst and at their mercy, reminded her horribly of where she had been mere weeks earlier. Of furtively running from alley to alley, terrified that her fellow Auditors would fall upon her and end her existence. Though most ignored her, each one that looked at her made her feel like prey.

Something nagged at her senses in particular, and she felt her gaze drawn, against her will, to the left where she met one set of eyes in particular. Flinching, she instead looked at the floor.

It was the sergeant. Angua had been her name, and the dislike in her expression now was obvious. So was the implied threat in her eyes. Myria's arm ached in sympathy at the memory.

_Worse and worse._ Taking a deep breath, she managed to face the Commander again. "I suppose our destination is the detention cells?"

Vimes looked surprised. "That was the intent, yes, but I didn't expect you to be in a hurry to get there."

"Why should we delay?" she could still feel Angua looking at her, whether it was true or not. "I would prefer to not put it off."

She heard the Commander yell for someone. "Fred!" A watchmen hurried over, rather on the large side. He and Vimes had a quick and quiet conversation, and the man nodded and moved away.

"This way." Myria found that Vimes continued to be businesslike but considerate. That at least was better than she expected. Working their way through the busy room to the stairs, they descended to the lower cells. Several of the ones on this end contained other prisoners. One in particular contained a set of dwarves under direct guard by an un-amused human constable. They appeared to be trying to include him in a sing-along.[1]

Had she known that this was the same path that Jonathon had taken mere weeks earlier, and the same location where Jessica had initially been brought, it might have cheered her slightly. The next door had another dwarf constable guarding it, and he unlocked it quickly and opened it as Vimes and Myria approached.

Beyond was a row of empty cells. At the far end, one in particular, seemed full of stacked objects. It was a bit difficult to see, however, because the way was mostly blocked by a huge troll.

"Constable Bluejohn." Vimes nodded.

"Command'r Vimes Sir," the troll seemed to think for a second, then saluted[2] and moved aside.

When they reached the cell, and Vimes unlocked it, Myria realized that the cell was full of flagstone. A lot of flagstone. Enough flagstone, in fact, to cover the floor of a rather large and well appointed sitting room. Rather nice flagstone. And deceptively flagstone-like. But Myria knew them well, and what was inside them. Silently she cursed them in her heart, then took a breath. "So, I am to be kept here, with these? I would have to see them every moment." _Torture!_

Vimes eyebrows went up and he seemed confused. "Kept here? Woman why would you want to be kept here?"

Despair gave way to exasperation. "I do not!" She waved her arms, the most emotional expression he had seen from her. "I assumed I was to be detained. Why else would you bring me to the cells?"

Vimes looked surprised, "I didn't _think_ you were listening to me in the coach." His face softened into sympathy, then indignation. "LeJean, you are not under arrest. I told you before you had not, as far as I could tell, committed any crime." She flinched at that, and he noted it. "At least no crime that I am aware of." He pulled out a silver cigar case and rubbed his thumb across it. "I'm not even detaining you for your own protection. You're free to do as you please."

Now it was Myria's turn to be shocked. She felt it wash over her in a wave of relief, one that left her feeling lighter and slightly dizzy. "Then why? Why are we here?"

"Because you suggested it, remember?"

She realized with a shock that this was true. "Then… you assumed I wanted to check on these." She motioned to the pile.

"Well, yes. Since we were here. Though I thought you'd rather rest some first. That little performance at the crime scene seemed to take a lot out of you."

It was as if he were speaking a foreign language. She ran back through everything that had happened, trying to reconcile what she thought was occurring with what he was saying. None of it made sense.

"But…" her mouth opened and closed like a fish gasping, "you took my gold from me. I thought you intended to confiscate it and…"

She stopped as she saw the expression on Vimes' face. His jaw tightened, she could see the muscles bunching and almost hear his teeth grinding, and his eyes narrowed.

Even worse, she heard a grating noise, like two rocks being slid across each other, and turned to see Constable Bluejohn looking at her and frowning too.

"Ma'am. Der Command'r don't take nuffin from nobody 'cept he gives a slippa paper what says der Watch has it." He thought for a second, then gave a careful nod and turned to Vimes. "Beggin yer pardon Command'r."

Myria turned to see that, somehow, Bluejohn's observation had drained some of the anger from his face. Taking her by the arm again, this time somewhat less gently, he nodded at BlueJohn and led her out of the cells, through the back of the main room, up another set of stairs, and into a sparsely decorated office. Closing the door, he turned back to her, and she stepped back from the look on his face.

"_Lady _LeJean_,_ I know you've been through a lot recently," he rumbled as he dragged a cigar out of the case, bit the end off, and with a slightly shaking hand, lit it.

_He is very angry with me. Like Jonathon was, but not like that Angua person was._

Vimes continued, "and I saw the state your parlour trick left you in." He drew in the smoke, and blew it out, taking some of his indignation with it. "So I'm going to forgive you for making what I consider a stupid assumption."

_Stupid?_ Myria felt her face redden and a surge of chemicals flooded her bloodstream. It made her feel… suddenly alert and no longer something's victim. _Did this human call me stupid?_ "Sir Samuel," her voice seemed to have something wrong with it. It was vibrating in an odd way, "I am not _stupid_. I am perhaps the most intelligent cr- _person_ you will meet." Her hands curled into fists, and they seemed to be demanding she fling them at something.

Vimes stood for a second, cigar held up to his mouth and smoke trailing from one open corner of it like he was about to breathe fire on her. She wondered for a second if _he_ would strike _her_ instead.

Then one corner of his mouth crooked up slightly, and he barked a short laugh. "Well," he managed, then lowered his cigar and turned his back for a few moments to lean against the desk. She could not be sure, but it appeared his shoulders were shaking slightly.

_Have I driven him to have some sort of physical malady?_ The change in his behavior took some of the… intensity out of her own reaction as well.

Finally he turned back around, his face carefully blank. "Lady LeJean, I do believe I've finally found the second thing you will stand up for."

"I am sorry?"

He smiled slightly. "Don't worry about it. Let's start over." He held out his hand. "Name's Sam Vimes, Commander of the City Watch. You can call me various things, but I suspect you'll prefer Sir Samuel."

Myria looked at him, completely confused. Perhaps she had, indeed, caused him mental injury. It appeared to include memory loss. Would it be best to go along? She carefully extended her own hand, and he shook it gently. "I am Lady Myria LeJean." She considered for a moment. "You may call me Lady LeJean."

Vimes seemed to struggle for a second with controlling his face, then nodded. "Very well, Lady LeJean. You are here, in my office." He swept an arm. "Such as it is, under your own power. You are free to come and go as you please, though I ask that you take at least one of my men with you."

Carefully Myria turned this information over in her mind. _Okay_. "Thank you, Sir Samuel. May I ask, then, what the purpose was in bringing me here, instead of returning me to the bakery? And why you took-" she carefully reconsidered of her words as she saw a dangerous glint in his eye, "_temporarily_ took possession of my gold after implying that I could take custody of it?"

Vimes gestured to a chair in front of his desk, and walked around to sit in his own. Several stacks of paper were upset in the process, and he studiously ignored them as they toppled to a larger mess on the floor in that area.

"That is a good question. My thoughts were, at that moment, that you," he pointed at her dress, "had no pockets, my lady."

Myria looked down at her dress, and felt very, very stupid.

* * *

[1] "No no no… it's _Hi Ho. Hi Ho_. Not _Hi Lo Hi Lo_. And that better not have been a try at humor, because our tempers are a bit… _frayed_! I was going to say _frayed_!"

[2] And impressively did _not_ knock himself unconscious in the process.

**[A/N I know this is a short chapter, but it was there, and the ending of it just begged to be the ending of the chapter. I hope you enjoyed it!]**


	12. Bankers Hours

**12 Bankers Hours**

Myria was startled, yet again, from her own musings. This time by a knock on the door of the Commander's office. She glanced at Sir Samuel long enough to see him hide his obvious amusement behind a carefully blank face, before clearing his voice.

"Come in."

Myria turned to see yet another watchman enter, a sergeant by the markings if she was not mistaken, and a dwarf by species. She also realized, with a slight shock, that the dwarf had apparently decorated his… no _her_, face with subtle pigments. It was similar to, though much less dramatic than the treatment her own face had received a couple of weeks ago.

The dwarf regarded Myria with open curiosity, then addressed Vimes. "Sergeant Colon said you wanted to see me, Commander?"

"Yes," he cast a deliberate glance at Myria before continuing, "I'd like your _professional_ opinion on this." Myria watched as Vimes carefully extracted the gold disk from an inside pocket. She also observed that the dwarf's eyes widened slightly and noted that her hands began to tremble slightly as she took it from him.[1]

Taking a deep breath, the sergeant seemed to calm a little as she bent to her task. Eyes staring into space, she hefted it in one hand and chewed on her glossed lip. "Well, I can go weigh it if you like. But just as a rough guess I'd say-"

Myria couldn't stop herself. "It is 2.194 pounds, sergeant, rounded to the nearest thousandths of a pound." Seeing her frown, she continued, "or if you prefer, it is two pounds and 3.106 ounces, again rounding to the thousandths of an ounce."

Vimes sat with his mouth slightly open, eyes darting between Myria and the sergeant. "Cheery?"[2]

The dwarf, apparently named Cheery, took a moment to find her voice. "I was going to say just over two pounds, sir."

Vimes turned narrowed eyes to Myria. "Now I know damn well you never got the chance to hold that today. How did you do that, LeJean?"

Myria felt her face redden. She really did need to learn to control herself better in these situations, but it was so _difficult_. "It is a… skill that I have. I estimate well."

"I see. Well you are just full of surprises, LeJean." He gestured to Cheery again. "And would you say that it is pure, sergeant?"

"It is pure, Sir Samuel."

Vimes growled slightly, "I asked the _Sergeant, _LeJean."

"My apologies, Sir Samuel."

Cheery looked cautiously at them both. "Well, I'd have to run some tests to be sure. Measure weight versus density for example, but…" She brought the disk-shaped ingot up to her face, and to both their surprise, gnawed a tiny piece off the edge. Closing her eyes, Cheery chewed thoughtfully for a few moments and swished her mouth before swallowing. Opening her eyes, she continued, "I'd say it's pretty close to the pure thing."

Myria looked at her in horror. "Did you just… swallow some of that metal?"

Cheery reddened slightly, though it was hard to see through the beard. "Sorry, old habit."[3]

Vimes wasn't sure whether to laugh or cry. _Enough of this nonsense._ Fixing Myria with a slight glare, he groused "Do you want a receipt for that, too?"

Myria considered carefully, watching Vimes' face as well as the dwarf's expression, trying to determine whether there was some verbal trap here. The dwarf seemed to be having trouble breathing. _Hmm_. "I do not believe that was a legitimate offer, Sir Samuel." She folded her hands in her lap. "I believe you are attempting to use sarcasm with me."

Vimes blinked, and Cheery's breathing difficulties appeared to increase. He'd never actually had anyone _call_ him on a comment like that. Usually they either just ignored it, or missed the point and walked into the trap with eyes wide open. He shook his head. "Never mind." He held out his hand, "Thank you, sergeant."

Reluctantly, Cheery started to hand the gold back over. "Sir," she hesitated, "do you realize how much this is worth?"

Vimes smiled grimly and held up his hands, "I have my suspicions. Why don't _you_ tell _me_?"

She fidgeted and caressed the ingot with two forefingers, "Well, I'm not sure what the current market rate is, sir, but assuming it's about $3,200 AM per ounce, it would be about $100,000 worth of gold in your hands sir."

"Actually, sergeant, it would be $118,587 dollars, 38 pence, one halfpence, and 32/100 of a pence remaining." She cringed, unable to stop herself, "Of course, that is not including the approximately 3/100 of a pence which the sergeant has ingested."

Vimes covered his face with both hands. "LeJean, _will_ you _stop_ doing that?"

Myria examined her hands sadly, "Unfortunately, Sir Samuel, it appears that I cannot. I have tried twice now."

Vimes lowered his hands just enough to see over them. She wasn't taking the piss with him. He could tell. And he didn't have the heart to beat her up over it. It would be like kicking a puppy. Granted, a puppy who could turn three very dangerous men and a gold bar to dust and then reverse part of the result to get _that_, but still. He sighed again. "Sergeant, I have an errand for you to run."

"Yessir."

* * *

It turned out that Myria would not be taking yet another coach ride, at least not immediately. Instead, Commander Vimes issued brief instructions to Cheery and, with Myria's agreement, gave the dwarf temporary custody of the gold ingot.[4]

Thus Myria found herself, for the first time that day, outside walking the streets of Ankh Morpork a free individual in the presence of only one watchman, who was in fact not a man neither by gender nor species. Of such situations are bonds forged.

"You are wearing makeup," Myria hazarded after they had gone a block or so.

Cheery snorted. "You're observant."

"You are a female then, I presume?"

Myria had to slow to match Cheery's pace for a moment. The dwarf looked away for a moment before answering slowly. "Yes… but it's not considered polite to point it out. Do I make comments about your…" Cheery looked Myria up and down[5] and huffed, "well, whatever I might comment about." She considered again. "Did you know, you have some sort of white powder all over your dress?"

Myria looked down, and felt a pang at the state of her dress. "Oh dear. I do. It is likely flour. Or possibly baking powder." She swatted at it, raising a small white cloud and improving it somewhat. "Am I insufficiently attired to appear in public?"

"I doubt anyone will notice once they see this." Cheery gestured to the small leather satchel under her arm.

There had been some discussion about taking security measures. On the one hand, it was only about ten blocks. On the other, the sheer amount of gold involved would seem to make them a target. They even considered placing the gold in a locked metal case, handcuffed to Cheery's wrist.

After a bit more discussion, they nixed that idea based on the fact that first off, doing so would just draw more attention to them and secondly, handcuffing over $100,000 AM worth of gold to your right wrist (on the assumption it would keep it from walking away in someone else's possession) was a great way to gain the nickname of "lefty" for the rest of your life.[6]

"I see," Myria responded. "But still I believe I shall have to purchase additional clothing, yet again." She paused. "I find that I suddenly remember that my prior purchases were never delivered to my residence on Kings Way. I believe they attempted to do so, but finding the residence destroyed likely returned them to the clothier. I wonder what became of them."

"Who was it?"

The establishment was entitled _Bullworth's Exclusive Designes_.

Cheery's eyes widened. _Wow. Well, I guess I should have expected something more than a few steps above the local shonky shop._ "Well," she thought for a second. "That should be easy enough." Stopping for a minute, she recognized a lean youth headed the other direction and whistled him over. Myria watched in surprise as Cheery gave him a brief message she wanted delivered to Bullworth's and paid him two pence with another two pence to be paid upon message delivery. The youth hurried off, and Cheery mused, "That shouldn't take long. Wouldn't be surprised if they had them waiting for you at the bakery when you get back."

"I do not understand. How did you know he would deliver your message? And you paid for a message to be delivered on my behalf."

"Didn't you see the little badge or button pinned to his collar? Not everyone has a servant to run messages for them; lately we've had more freelancers about. The Watch have even used them for official business a few times. And as for the cost, call it payment for items previously ingested."

"But the amount of," Myria almost said _gold_ out loud, but at Cheery's frantic waving changed it to "_material_ ingested was surely worth less than the cost of the message."

Cheery laughed. "I'm sure you're good for it."

"Thank you sergeant. You have been most kind."

"Call me Cheery."

The dwarf actually smiled, and Myria responded in kind. "I will do so. You may call me Myria."

That settled, they continued on another block in silence. Myria felt, somehow, more was expected. She took a wild guess at appropriate subject matter. "I… I find your shoes pleasing."

Cheery actually beamed. "Really? Thanks." She paused and lifted one, showing off more of the side. "I had them custom made here locally."

"Yes." Myria nodded. "Yes I can see how that would be required. I do not recall seeing iron-shod boots with 3 inch heels during my shopping with Jessica."

Cheery started. "Jessica Knäcke?"

"The same," Myria supplied hesitantly. Did Cheery know of what happened?

"How is she doing?"

"She is much improved. She was working in the bakery this morning."

"I'm glad to hear that." Cheery chewed on the edge of her beard for a moment. "She wasn't in good shape at all when we found her." Myria tried to hide her reaction, but apparently didn't succeed. "Sorry, I forgot for a second that you were involved too." Another pause. "Not to pry but, what exactly did happen in that café?"

Myria felt all the warm feelings of camaraderie flee. "I would rather not discuss it. It is quite painful."

"Sorry. Forget I asked."

_Humans keep saying that. And it makes me… angry. Forget forget forget._

That put a stop to the conversation for another block, until Myria's anger faded and she thought about a question of her own. "Your name. _Cherry_. Are you named after the fruit? What is the significance of that?"

Cheery reddened slightly. "I'd rather not discuss it. And no, it's nothing to do with the fruit."

"My apologies. Pray pretend I did not ask."

Cheery stopped and gave Myria a long look. "Are you making fun of me?"

"No! I am just… attempting to fit in."

"Oh. Ok." _Foreigners are just plain odd_, Cheery mused, then looked around. "Ah, well here we are."

Myria gazed at the building in front of her. Her Auditor-derived senses made note of the number of columns, the sheer volume of space that the building must occupy, and the estimated cubic feet of stone required to frame that space.

The more newly minted human senses admitted, grudgingly, that it looked quite impressive.[7]

"And here, we will place that," she nodded to the leather bag, "for safekeeping and in return?"

"In return, they will give you Ankh Morpork coins and a, as the Commander mentioned, a letter of credit that you can draw on. I understand that you can also write IOUs against it."

"An IOU? What is that?"

"Um… it's like a promise. 'I Owe You'. Like what we did with the messenger fee but in writing, I guess."

"I see. And this will make me safer?"

"Trust me, it's a lot safer than what you have been doing. Just carrying this around gives me the shivers. It's like painting a target on my helmet."

Myria considered that, for several weeks, she had carried a slightly larger version of this around with her, and suddenly felt faint. _The most intelligent and most stupid creature in Ankh Morpork, both at once. _The dichotomy made her want to curse and laugh at the same time. Shaking her head, she took a deep breath. "Very well, let us proceed."

A very old human in some sort of uniform opened the door for them as they reacted the top of the steps and entering inside, Myria remarked that there was… something… that seemed to change the very air. It was similar to the feeling that Susan and Jonathon had experienced in Small Gods Cemetery a few days earlier.

She halted, and had to force herself to speak even at a whisper. "Do you feel that?"

Cheery blinked, looked around the room, and then shrugged. "What?"

"There is something about this place. It feels different than outside the doors. It is like…" she struggled to find the words, "It is as if it is creating its own reality here."

Cheery frowned, gave the room another slow scan. Then she inhaled deeply. "Nooo… can't say that I feel anything like that," she responded in a low tone. "Smells like leather and old money to me. Feels like a museum."

The interior, like the exterior of the building, was designed to impress. Myria noted the obvious wealth implied in each aspect of the architecture. Large interior columns framed the walls, made out of what appeared to be an expensive white marble. The floor likewise was a pattern of islands of very thick and expensive looking carpet framed by equally expensive marble tiles.

Scattered along the sides of the room were heavy desks wrought from dark wood, the tops covered in a pale green leather that was worn along the corners by years of use. While along the wall opposite the door was a long counter with windows. Closer to the door were several leather sofas where, she supposed, customers might wait if they wished.

This room spoke of time arrested. Of things that did not change. Of permanence and stability. It reminded her in many ways of the glass clock. _It is no wonder_, she shuddered, _that a human was easily enticed into building that device. They seek permanence, but the only permanence is in the lack of change._

There were only a few customers. Some stood at the counter conducting transactions with the humans behind the window. Others sat in front of the large desks, apparently conducting more complex business with the bank employee seated there.

Myria found herself unsure what to do next, and was relieved when Cheery took the lead.

"Wait here for a moment," she indicated the sofa as she made her way to one of the windows. There were a few awkward moments before the teller there realized that there was in fact a physical body below the counter level associated with the voice.[8] It was less than a minute before Cheery, slightly red-faced, was motioning Myria over to one of the desks off to the side with two chairs in front of it.

The rather late-middle aged, Myria estimated, human raised his head from his desk as they approached. Myria could see that his desk was very neat, which she approved. He had apparently been totaling up figures on a sheet of paper, for she could see where he had been performing sums. She found it curious, however, regarding his technique.

"May I help you?"

_It appears, to be more specific, that he is adding the figures in a stepwise fashion, starting with the column where the single cents would be._

*cough cough*

_Following from there, he would add the next digit above the ten cents column. _

"Um. Myria?"

_Of course, that seemed very inefficient. Surely, being a professional who dealt with numbers on a daily basis, he could simply add the numbers using only internal methods?_

"Myria!" someone hissed and poked her arm, startling her.

"One thousand two hundred fifty two dollars and twelve cents!" she gasped.

"What!? What was that supposed to mean?"

Myria stood with mouth open, looking from Cheery to the bank employee. Cheery looked completely bewildered, as did the man behind the desk, but only for a moment. Then his eyes narrowed and he looked down at the numbers on his desk.

"I… I am sorry. I…" sighing, Myria sat down and examined her hands. Cheery, shaking her head, did the same.

"Sorry about that sir, my associate would like to-"

"One moment. My apologies, but give me one moment, if you please." was the terse response from the clerk as he furiously ran his finger down columns of numbers and began making notations. After an uncomfortably long number of seconds, during which his face began to redden slightly, he peered suspiciously at Myria.

"One thousand two hundred fifty two dollars, and twelve cents." He gripped the pen tightly in his hand. "The cents I can understand how you read upside down, as I had already added them. But the rest? You added those sums, in your head, upside down?"

Cheery, now realizing what had happened, seemed to sink down in her seat slightly, with a death grip on the leather case. _Hooboy_.

"I… I am sorry. Would I be correct in guessing that I have violated some protocol?"

"No my lady, but I must admit I am amazed. I must assume, based on your bearing and your associate, that you have not come to apply for a career at the Royal Bank." He shifted his glasses further up his nose. "But confess a feat such as you just displayed would ensure you a bright future here."

"Oh! I thank you, Mister…" her eyes fell on the engraved nameplate on the desk, "I should say, Junior Clerk Mortimer Combs, but I am at this time interested in opening an account with your institution and making a sizeable deposit."

"I see." The clerk shifted gears smoothly as he, equally smoothly, swept the current paperwork from his desk into a waiting folder and placed it out of site, before equally smoothly pulling a series of blank forms from another drawer. "Then let me be the first to welcome you to the Royal Bank of Ankh Morpork."

"Thank you, Junior Clerk Combs."

Pen poised over the form, Mr. Combs began what was, to him, a very routine series of basic questions. Unfortunately for Myria, it turned into a very extensive series of mental gymnastics. When you are an Auditor become human, your age is either months or millennia, and neither would work in this instance. She did everything she could to provide reasonable answers, sticking to at least one interpretation of the truth at every opportunity.

Finally that portion of the process was complete. Myria realized, to her shock, that there was a light sheen of moisture on her forehead. Interesting. Cheery, for her part, looked slightly bored and was still mumbling from time to time about "heightist bank tellers".

"So you see, Lady LeJean, this will be your account reference number. But of course, were you to forget it, you need only provide your name. And of course, we will have your signature to verify identity."

"My signature. How can my signature confirm my identity?"

To his credit, he did not even blink.[9] "Every person's signature is distinct, my lady. If I were, for instance, attempt to write your name, it would still differ stylistically from the manner in which you write it." He rotated the form around to face her, and offered an ornate quill pen.

Myria hesitated. She had not realized the importance of this, and she suspected that each of the three times she had previously signed her name, there had been slight variations in the size of various letter, the arc-angle of many of the loops, and the length of almost every line.

Which one should she use as the permanent basis for her signature?

*cough* She looked to her left at Cheery, who rolled her eyes and mumbled "Sometime this week, Myria."

Steeling herself, Myria settled on her first signature as the standard, and repeated it.

Loop for loop, line for line, an exact duplicate.

_There. That should be sufficient, _she thought, trying without success to ignore the suffering sigh of Cheery next to her.

"Marvelous, my lady. Now. Do you have a letter of credit from your Genua bank, or will we be depositing a note from a local merchant with whom you have done business?"

Cheery jumped into the gap at this moment, tired of the endless questions, answers, and writing. The novelty had long since worn off. "Oh neither of those, Mr. Combs. Lady LeJean wishes to use this as her initial deposit," she volunteered, opening the leather satchel enough that its contents gleamed in the otherwise dim light of the bank.

In the reflected golden glow that washed over Mr. Combs' glasses, she could see from his reaction that maybe, just maybe, she should have warned him first.

* * *

[1] The relationship between dwarves and gold is very different from the relationship between humans and gold. Most humans see gold as, usually, a means to an end. Most dwarves on the other hand see gold as something you cut people off at the knees to obtain, then take home and cuddle up with on a cold evening.

[2] Note that the Commander pronounced this like "Cherry" not like "Cheery". There's a long story here, but it's one that Pratchett tells better than I could.

[3] Worth noting is the fact that swallowing a bit of gold does no harm to the swallower nor the swallowee and, if you have no other way, is one altnernative method for transporting it without notice by nosy humans. Of course, later recovery can be a bit messy. Oh, and it makes the demand of "_your money or your life_" a bit redundant, too.

[4] We will continue to use the word ingot, though it is not really appropriate, because blob doesn't really do it justice, it's not a nugget, and miniature galactic disk seems a little excessive.

[5] More up than down. Sorry! Sorry! It was a joke! *muffled sounds of author being assaulted at groin level*

[6] See for clear examples every single stupid spy or gangster movie you've ever watched where some poor moron agrees to this and later regrets it with extreme prejudice.

[7] The Royal Bank of Ankh Morpork looked, as Mr. Moist Von Lipwig would later suggest, very much like a temple. See _Making_ Money by Sir Terry Pratchett.

[8] Dwarves are unsurprisingly not known for opening bank accounts. When you have the ability to dig your own vault hundreds of feet below the surface and have a reputation for running at people with an axe screaming, the idea that a bank would be somehow a safer place for your wealth becomes a bit laughable. As a result, AM banks have been slow to alter facilities to accommodate their, um, stature.

[9] As anyone in any 'customer-facing' service industry will tell you, the range of oddness in customers is, for all intents and purposes, infinite. And the longer you have worked in that business, the more likely you are to have met all of them.


End file.
